So glad you could make it back to Duck Chat! Welcome!

A very special treat for you today, TJ Bennett is here!

TJ’s first two published books are getting rave reviews and this is only the beginning for this author. Her first book, The Legacy, was released in April of last year and The Promise followed this year in May. She will be telling us about them today.

She began writing in 2000, won contests and awards for her stories, and then struck gold with The Legacy. TJ has a BA and MA in English and taught college writing for a while. She’s had some interesting jobs in her past:  civilian contract negotiator for the US Air Force, buying multi-million dollar satellite and weapons systems, and she was president of her own consulting business for several years. Married with children, as a writer she has a terrific philosophy: she believes that nothing is ever lost, and no painful experience is in vain: it’s all research.

Be sure to leave a meaningful comment or question for TJ, because she’s kindly giving away two copies of The Promise. Now let’s chat!

DUCK CHAT: TJ, your Legacy series is being very warmly embraced by readers. Would you tell us a little about the series overall first, and is it evolving the way you originally planned?

TB: The series is set during the Early Reformation (1525), an unusual, outside-the-box period that readers have told me they are becoming quite interested in as a result of my books. This is the time of the rise of literacy, egalitarianism, the split of the Catholic Church, and the nailing of Martin Luther’s 95 Theses on the castle church wall. I deal with the upheaval in the social, political, and cultural fabric of the western world by looking at ordinary people who lived through these difficult changes. I try to recreate what it must have been like to live fearlessly and love passionately during these turbulent times. The series currently has two books, and yes, they are as I planned them to be. I got very lucky in that my publisher, Medallion Press, loves outside-the-box historicals and left my vision pretty much intact.

Their faith in the story has been well-rewarded. The reviews for The Legacy have been incredible, and the icing on the cake was when the reader review site All About Romance dubbed it a “Buried Treasure 2008” and gave it Desert Isle Keeper status. You can read the reviews for this and The Promise, the second book in the series over on my website.

DC: If you could retire any question and never, ever have it asked again, what would it be? Feel free to answer it.

TB: I haven’t been interviewed enough to have a question I’d want to retire! I’m awaiting the day I feel so jaded by it all that I can simply arch an eyebrow at my interviewer and say, with bored ennui, “I have no response to that. Next question.” I’ve been practicing in the mirror.

DC: I’ve heard writers often say their stories take them in surprising directions, or dialogue flows from some unknown place. Is it the same with you? Do your characters surprise you sometimes?

TB: In fact, that’s how the second book in the series, The Promise, came about. I was deep in the midst of writing The Legacy when I suddenly realized Wolfgang Behaim, my printer hero who is forced into an arranged marriage with a runaway nun, had not one but two brothers, and the second brother was a mercenary. Günter Behaim swaggered his way into Wolf’s story and refused to leave until I promised him his own book. He’s a smooth-talking persuader, that one, and when he kept whispering suggestive comments in my ear and toying with the curve of my wrist, I found myself twined around his manly finger with no recourse but to begin the second book about him and the Spanish blade merchant’s daughter for whom he falls.

DC: The Legacy is about Wolfgang Behaim and Baroness Sabina von Ziegler. Would you tell us about their book?

TB: Okay, this might be the one question I’d retire…just kidding!

When her brief, disastrous marriage to a fortune hunter ends in scandal, Baronesse Sabina von Ziegler’s vengeful adoptive father imprisons her in a cloister. She arranges a daring escape and suddenly finds herself betrothed to Wolfgang Behaim, a tradition-bound printer from the rising middle class with a secret that threatens to destroy everything he holds dear. As they fight to discover the truth of the mysteries surrounding the Baron’s machinations, they find themselves challenged by a fiery passion they cannot resist. Can they overcome their past and find love even as lies, war, and an unexpected enemy conspire against them?

Excerpt from The Legacy:

“Well,” Wolf said, arching a brow. “I suppose this means no wedding feast.”

A soft groan escaped Lady Sabina. Her gown fluttered like a conquered flag in the wind, and she closed her eyes.

Wolf felt her weight press against him.

“Are you ailing?” he asked with some concern, reaching out a hand. She withdrew, and Wolf would not have been surprised to hear an audible crack as she stiffened her spine.

“I am fine. The day has been long.”

He squinted at her. “The cock has barely crowed.”

“My life has been long, then.” She looked away.

He refrained from saying he was several years older than she. The weary set of her shoulders made him agree with her conclusion.

He found the horse her father had left, a skinny palfrey with a swayed back. While the ancient beast creaked when it walked, it would last long enough to get them home.

Sanctuary.

He felt his spirits lift a little in spite of his foul mood. He retrieved his own horse and walked both up the path, noting the gathering storm clouds. If they weren’t quick about it, they would be caught in a downpour. He went to the girl and motioned her towards the horse.

“Up,” he said.

She straightened her back, her steady blue gaze trapping his. “Are you speaking to me or to the horse?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Why you, of course, unless you intend for the horse to ride.”

The girl clasped shaking hands in front of her, but when she spoke again her voice was steady. “Master Behaim. It is customary to use a form of address when engaging another in polite conversation. My name is Sabina. You have my permission to use it. If you prefer, you may call me ‘Baronesse’ or ‘my lady.’ In a pinch, I suppose, ‘Frau Behaim’ will do. But ‘you,’ implied or otherwise, is not an acceptable alternative, particularly when speaking to one of noble descent.”

His jaw dropped open at her speech.

She pointed at his mouth. “You will catch flies with that.”

His jaw snapped shut, and he regarded her with genuine interest. A fire crackled in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. He knew few men with the fortitude to talk back to him, let alone women. He stepped back and sketched a sweeping bow.

“If it would please Your Majesty, your steed awaits,” he said with a mocking flourish.

“That, too, would be an inappropriate form of address, given my station.”

He was no longer amused. “Get on the cursed horse—”

She trembled at his forbidding tone, but she did not comply.

“—my lady,” he finally ground out.

She tilted her head. “It would be my pleasure.”

She reached for the pommel, but when she tried to pull up, she rose only half way and slid down again. She looked at him in consternation.

“May I?” he said stiffly, his desire to aid her in conflict with his desire to abandon her to her own devices.

She nodded. When he lifted her up to place her in the sidesaddle, her small breasts brushed against his chest. A curl of long black hair feathered across his cheek. Determinedly ignoring her nearness, he deposited her in the saddle and reached to steady her. His hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary, and it occurred to him that if he wrapped them around her tiny waist, his fingers would almost touch at the tips. Heat spiraled through him. Surprised, he released her as though burned. She swayed atop the horse.

“What the—!” He caught her before she fell to the ground, and stood her up again. Her knees buckled and, out of necessity, he pressed her between him and the horse, which looked back and regarded them both without blinking.

He could feel the girl’s heart pounding against his. He stared down at her for a moment and for some reason her mouth again drew his gaze.

Dear God, that mouth—it gave a man ideas. She may be plain in every other respect, but that mouth was sin itself. His hands were still around her waist where he had caught her. He had been right. His fingers did nearly touch.

By the saints and stars, what was he doing?

He stepped back, releasing her.

“Can’t you sit a horse?” he snapped, irritated to find himself susceptible to such an obvious female ploy as falling into a man’s arms.

“Yes—nay—that is, the saddle slipped,” she stammered.

With a raised brow, he knelt down to check the palfrey’s girth and the girl jumped aside, more skittish than the horse. She must have been holding her breath because it suddenly came out in a rush. He skewed her a wry glance, then returned to examining the girth.

It was worn and had nearly snapped when the girl—dammit, Lady Sabina’s—weight had been added to it. It barely held together. Of course von Ziegler would give his daughter an old horse with a useless saddle, adding final insult to injury.

Wolf eyed her over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you can ride bareback, Your Worship?”

Her plump mouth drew into a thin line. “Nay, I do not suppose I can.”

He had no pillion handy, either. He considered their other alternatives, coming up with only one, and stood up. “You’ll have to ride double with me, then.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “I—I am sure that will not be necessary. If it is not too far, I can walk.”

“I’d hardly ride while you walked, and I am not walking.” He stifled an exasperated sound when he saw her draw up at his harsh tone. “Pardon me. Sanctuary is nearly half a league away. If you haven’t noticed, it’s about to storm. We’d catch our death of cold before we got halfway there. It’s my horse for the both of us, or you can return home with your father—if you can catch him.”

That alternative didn’t sit well with her either, it appeared. She glanced doubtfully over at his powerfully built horse, which stood seventeen hands high at the withers, and pursed her lips.

“What is his name?” she finally asked.

“What difference does it—Suleiman, his name is Suleiman,” he said, trying to unclench his teeth.

She blinked. “You named your horse after a marauding infidel?”

“He was a little difficult to train. I thought the name fit well at the time. Now, of course, he is as tame as a kitten,” he dryly assured her while Suleiman pawed at the ground and snorted. “Would you like to look at his bite and check his hooves, too? Or may we ride?”

She huffed prettily. “Master Behaim, I only wished to know his name so that we would not be strangers. If someone intended to ride me, I would certainly prefer to be introduced first.”

A slow, masculine smile spread across his face. He couldn’t help it. “Well, that’s good to know. Call me Wolf.”

DC: Do you ever argue with your characters while you’re writing? Who usually wins?

TB: I don’t argue, per se, but I do sometimes struggle with where they want to go next. The characters evolve the more I work with them, so sometimes my original intent for them might not fit the direction the story is headed. Still, I have to exert enough control as the writer to make it all work out. Otherwise, the guys toting the funny white jackets with all the buckles on them might show up on my doorstep and insist I come along quietly, now.

DC: What is sure to distract you from sitting down and working/writing?

TB: Sigh…family life. I’m a wife and a mommy to twins going into junior high school, and they seem to be extra needy right now. Plus, in my “real life” I’ve been making some major non-writing related career changes which have really kept me busy for the past year. I’m hoping my new career field will give me more leeway in my schedule so I can focus more on my writing.

DC: Gunter Behaim and Alonsa Garcia de Aranjuez are featured in The Promise. Can you give our readers some insight into their story?

TB: Günter Behaim, a professional soldier in the service of Emperor Charles V, has been hardened by betrayal and disloyalty in his life, and he has sworn to make few promises of his own and keep those until death. When his closest friend is mortally wounded on the battlefield, however, Günter pledges to marry the other man’s betrothed and keep her safe. That woman turns out to be a Spanish beauty named Alonsa García de Aranjuéz, but she will have no part of such an agreement. Trying to keep his promise, Günter uses every weapon in his romantic arsenal to convince the reluctant woman to marry him, and he begins to love her very much. Meanwhile, Alonsa is falling in love too, but she dares not reveal her feelings because she is under a curse that brings misfortune to any man who loves her. As war draws near and danger surrounds them, the couple has to make a crucial decision: accept their fates or risk everything to be together?

Excerpt from The Promise:

“I’ve waited so long,” Günter muttered. “So long ….”

The sound of metal pots clanging outside the tent reached Alonsa like a distant alarm. Abruptly, Günter’s face changed. Shock slackened his features as he looked down at his hands on her, her hands on him. He released her as though burned, and her skirts slid back into place.

She felt bereft at his withdrawal, and she took a step toward him. He threw his hands up between them, and she saw that they shook.

“Nay,” he rasped, gesturing toward the tent flap.

He seemed incapable of more than one word at a time. His chest heaved; his forehead gleamed with sweat.

Slowly, she became aware of her surroundings. She had forgotten everything: her honor, her virtue … Dios mío, Martin! Her hand flew to her mouth and shame seeped through her bones. She had forgotten even him!

“Martin.” He said the name first. A look of self-loathing crossed his face. “The day we buried him ….” He gazed around the tent and shook his head. He let his head fall forward. “I’ve dishonored my friend.”

“We,” she whispered, “have dishonored him.”

She more so than he. Günter would hate her, not want her like this, if he knew how she had caused Martin’s death. Yet, if Günter were to reach for her again, she would be unable to deny him. What she had felt, what they had done confirmed even more the vow she had sworn.

Her fear returned twice fold. She must leave. She must. For she knew with all the certainty of the heat still pounding through her body that Günter would not survive if she stayed.

With a sob, she turned away. “Go,” she begged.

“Alonsa, wait.” She felt his hand on her shoulder. “It isn’t as bad as it seems. Martin would have understood—”

She jerked away. “Por favor, go!”

He sighed from behind her.

“This is not how I would have wished it, true. I would like to have let you mourn a bit. I would like to have honored his memory for a time before ….” He stopped.

When he spoke again, she heard the wry tone in his voice.

“Before leaping on you like some wild animal. Still. It is obvious to me now that Martin understood something I did not.” He circled around to face her, and lifted her chin so that he looked into her eyes. “Alonsa, you must listen to me now. I have something important to ask you.”

She looked up at him and the intensity of his expression made her heart pound with anxiety. Please do not ….

“Will you be my wife?” he asked softly. “When the time is right? Say yes, and you will fulfill the wishes of two men.”

She backed away from him, panicked at the thought. “No! How can you ask such a thing of me? I could never marry you!”

He flinched, and she could tell she had hurt him. She had not intended that, only to warn him.

His features settled into a cold mask, his tone icy when he spoke again. “Why not? What is wrong with me? It cannot be that I am a soldier. Martin was a soldier. He seemed good enough for you.”

His eyes narrowed into points of emerald fire. He reached for her, wrapped a warm hand around the nape of her neck beneath the loose braid that lay damp against her skin.

“You have someone else in mind, mayhap?” His words cut into her. “Has some rich old merchant in the baggage train offered his jewels for your pretty neck? Has some young noble dazzled you with his shiny, untried armor?”

His thumb traced hot circles in the shallow dip just below her ear. His eyes flashed fire at her, and at their depths lay a passionate yearning that nearly undid her. “Tell him you’ve changed your mind. You belong to me.”

His possessiveness frightened her, and yet it excited her as well. Goosebumps rose along her skin in response to both his touch and his intensity.

She broke away. “Do not be ridiculous. When would I have made such plans?” She clasped her hands around her arms and tried to erase the shivers he had caused, turning her back on him. “I have no man in mind. I think now only of God.” She turned to him, straightened her back. “I have decided to consign myself to a convent. I intend to become a nun.”

His eyebrows flew up. “What?” he roared.

“Shhh! You will arouse the entire camp with your bellowing.” She glanced anxiously over his shoulder at the open tent flap.

“No more than you did with your moaning, Sister Alonsa,” he observed.

She felt the heat of a blush cover her entire body. “You confused me! You—”

“Do not say I forced you,” he softly interrupted, but she did not miss the steel in his voice. “We both know the truth.”

Her eyes locked with his. Tension vibrated between them.

She sighed and looked away. “Yes. To say otherwise would be a falsehood.” She stared at him then, willed him to understand. “It is not my intent to injure your pride or your feelings, Günter. I simply do not wish to marry you. Nor any man. It is for your sake that I refuse, not my own. Please do not ask me to explain further.” Because if he had thought her mad before, he would certainly think her so if she told him the entire truth.

He stared at her for a long moment. He stepped closer, then, towering over her. She drew back.

“Don’t be afraid.” He spoke in a soft voice, as though he sought to gentle a trapped but injured animal he wished to aid.

Do not be afraid?

From Alonsa’s vantage point, Günter seemed as imposing as a mountainside. She noted the sharp planes of his face, from the sensual slash of his mouth to the ruffled dark-blond hair that she had tangled in her fingers just moments ago. She could not look away. She clenched her trembling hands behind her, stared at his mouth, and cursed her own weakness.

“I do not fear you,” she denied feebly. Just your kisses and your touch ….

“I have always known you belonged to me.” His eyes roamed over her face. He moved closer still, until his chest brushed her breasts. “Always. Mayhap before we ever met.”

“Now who speaks as one insane?” Her voice sounded husky, as though she had just arisen from his bed after a night of ardent lovemaking.

He smiled slowly. “I want you to speak to me like that after the first time I take you,” he said in a gravelly whisper. “Low and soft, like a woman well-pleasured. Which you will be.”

Her hand moved of its own accord. The slap rang out in the quietness of the tent, her palm stinging from the force of it. Though it left a red welt across his cheek, he did not react.

He stared at her, his proud nose flaring, his green eyes narrowing to slits. He slid his hand once more around her waist and pulled her to him. She resisted the draw, pushed with her palms against his chest. He leaned into her, and she thought he would kiss her again. Instead—to her surprise—he buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. His hand rose and fisted there for a moment, but he released her. She almost fell backward from the sudden loss of his strong arms encircling her.

Günter’s jaw clenched. Then the corner of his mouth lifted in a provocative smile. He made a loose fist with one hand and gave her chin a light tap.

“Fight me, then. Run, if you must. Hide—if you can. But you will not escape your fate.” He pinned her with the heat of his gaze. “I am your fate,” he vowed, and turning on his heel, walked out of the tent.

DC: After two books now published, what’s the best experience you’ve had so far on your journey? Is there a worst experience yet? What’s the best lesson you’ve learned so far?

TB: The best experience was holding my debut novel in my hands. After six years of trying to see it published and sometimes believing it would never happen, nothing tops that. I’ve been very lucky in that I haven’t had anything I’d call a “worst” experience yet (crossing fingers) because I learn from everything—as I always say, no painful experience is ever lost; it’s all research. The best lesson I’ve learned so far is to know where to draw the line on the “business” end of publishing. Sometime writers want to be published so badly or want to attract an agent or an editor’s attention so much we can taste it. We’ll make compromises that aren’t necessarily in the best interest of either ourselves or our work to achieve that goal. I’ve learned where my line is, and I will not cross it. It’s an important lesson every writer has to learn at some point.

DC: Are more books planned for the series? Can you give us an idea of what to expect next?

TB: I don’t have another book planned for The Legacy series at this time, although there is a third brother, Peter, who certainly has an interesting story to tell. However, I’m working on another piece right now I’m very excited about: a Victorian Gothic. It’s very different in terms of content than what my readers have seen from me before, but it has all my trademark elements: passion, humor, daring, danger, and a deep, satisfying read. I can’t wait to finish it!

DC: Is there a particular genre you’d like to tackle some day?

TB: I’d like to write contemporary paranormal romance at some point. I love historicals, but the research is so much trickier and time-consuming. I think the market might be going a little soft on paranormals, however, so I’m sticking with what I do best for now.

DC: You have a couple of books that have won numerous prestigious contests. Any chance we’ll see one or more of them in bookstores one day?

TB: I doubt it. One of them contested very well but never sold, and my style has evolved so much since I wrote it, it really isn’t representative of what I can do now. Definitely an “under-the-bed-dust-bunny gatherer,” that one, although the basic premise is solid. The second one also contested well, but became a victim of that whole “compromise” thing I talked about before. I listened to too many other voices instead of my own to the point that I lost sight of my original vision for the work; my heart wasn’t really in the final result. That was nobody’s fault but my own. However, since I prefer to move forward instead of back while learning from my mistakes, it isn’t likely I will rewrite it any time soon. I really loved the original story, but I learned a lot from the writing of it that I hope I have successfully applied to what I’m working on now.

What I find very amusing is that in its unpublished state, The Legacy did horrible in contests, and The Promise, not much better. I think they were just too different for the folks who judge these types of contests to wrap their minds around. Yet these are the two books that got published. The two books that did well in contests are under the bed. Not sure what that says about either my writing or the contest world. The good news is that The Legacy did place in several published contests this year, so maybe the perception that “outside-the-box” doesn’t sell is slowly changing.

DC: What advice would you give to your younger self?

TB: Start sooner. Dream bigger. Don’t sell yourself short. And don’t wear capris. They make your calves look wide.

DC: If you were a book, what would your blurb be?

TB: Hmmm. I have no idea. Maybe, “Like The Little Engine That Could, a middle-age soccer mom learns a life lesson:‘it’s never too late to dream.’” Ick, that was horrible. I’d have to work on that a while to make it cover copy worthy. Sorry.

DC: What would be your “voice’s” tagline?

TB: Well, it’s the brand I use: “Dark and Daring Romance.” What that means to me is that I’m not afraid to go dark places with my characters’ emotions, and I’m not afraid to do something different. My stories explore the full range of human emotion, which can be funny, scary, passionate, inspiring, and not always pretty.

DC: If you had never become an author, what do you think you would be doing right now?

TB: Isn’t it interesting that I can’t even go there? I’ve always had a career—in fact, I’ve had several. I guess I’d be doing one of those. I’ve been a contract negotiator, a trainer, a business owner, and a college educator. None of those has ever satisfied me the way being a writer has, but they have paid the bills.

DC: What’s on the horizon for TJ Bennett?

TB: As I mentioned earlier, with my “real life” calming down a bit (she crosses fingers again, praying that Nature will not notice and then abhor the vacuum left open, thereby filling it with something not having to do with her writing career), I’ll be able to get down to seriously finishing my current WIP. My hero is devastating, my heroine brilliant, and the story surprises me daily. I wish I knew how it ended!

Lightning Round:

- dark or milk chocolate? – mmmmilk
- smooth or chunky peanut butter? – smooth
- heels or flats? – flats (I have square feet. Square feet do not balance on the ends of stiletto heels without something being broken, usually an ankle or possibly a toe.)
- coffee or tea? – Tea (unless it’s 5:30am and I’m freaking unable to form a coherent sentence but have to get in the car and drive amongst the unsuspecting populace, in which case coffee is just the thing.)
- summer or winter? – winter
- mountains or beach? – mountains (because no one, including myself, wants to see me in a bikini on the beach. Frankly, no one wants to see me in a bikini in the mountains, either).
- mustard or mayonnaise? – mustard, but only if it is honey mustard
- flowers or candy? – candy (please reference above response to chocolate and beach questions)
- pockets or purse? – Purse. I could be stranded on a desert island with nothing but my purse, and I could survive for a week.
- Pepsi or Coke? – “Coke, no Pepsi.”
- ebook or print? – Print, mostly, but Kindle is converting me.

Because folks like them:

1. What is your favorite word? – petard
2. What is your least favorite word? – pus
3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? – Love and romance (really)
4. What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally? – Intolerance—especially from those who claim to be more tolerant than me, but won’t tolerate my views because they aren’t like theirs. In other words, as long as I believe in the same things you do, we’ll get along fine? Pffft!
5. What sound or noise do you love? – “Pffft!” I love saying that. It’s so expressive, you can duplicate it in writing, and it drives my husband nuts. What’s not to like?
6. What sound or noise do you hate? – Raised voices in anger. I cannot tolerate it. There are other ways to get your point across. If you can’t do it with some semblance of vocal control, go away until you can.
7. What is your favorite curse word? – I don’t curse (she said, fluttering her eyelashes daintily).
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? – Ooo. Good one. I’d love to have been an archeologist. Or an astronomer. Or an astronaut! Any of those scientific jobs that start with an “A.” I think they are so cool. I’m such a geek.
9. What profession would you not like to do? – A waitress. Not that the job isn’t honorable—exactly the opposite. I just don’t think I could put up with the endless stream of jerks waitresses have to deal with on a daily basis. Someone would have to die.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? – “I loved your last book!” Wait, wait! That sounds so egocentric. Let me try again. “Well done, my child.” Really, that’s the one I’d like to hear. That I didn’t screw up too bad while I was here.

DC: LOL! Thank you so much, TJ, for being with us! It was a lot of fun.

Besides it being a chance for me to catch up with my online buds, I enjoy the annual RWA conference because it gives me a chance to put my ear to the nearest wall and catch the latest buzz. This year I once again roomed with KristieJ from Ramblings On Romance. Kristie has spent the better part of the last year promoting the heck out of Broken Wing by Judith James and berating badgering coaxing her fellow members of Romance Blog Land to read the book that she so fell in love with. The result? Kristie has almost 30 bloggers listed on her sidebar of those of us who have read the book.

It was while we were at RWA in Washington D.C. that Kristie had the opportunity to chat with some people from Sourcebooks, the publisher that will be publishing Judith James second novel, Highland Rebel, in September. They told Kristie that Broken Wing was the highest selling title in Medallion Press history. At this point Kristie hasn’t had this confirmed with the folks over at Medallion, but why would Sourcebooks make something like that up? The answer is, they wouldn’t.

There was a brouhaha several months back involving an interview an editor and VP from Harpercollins Avon did over at All About Romance essentially dismissing the value of online promotion and bloggers. My response to this was that if Avon was waiting for the day when a blogger was going to be solely responsible for “making” a book, they’d be waiting a long time. Listen, I’m a librarian. I can tell you in no uncertain terms that there are two ways to “make” a book. 1) The publisher’s PR department puts in a lot of long hours and 2) Oprah picks it for her book club.

This naturally brought up a lot of discussion on how “important” reader bloggers are and how much “traffic” we get.

Horse hooey

The minute reader bloggers begin losing sight of what their purpose is, and why they got into the game to begin with, is when they start feeding a corporate machine. Most of us started blogging for one reason, and one reason only. We wanted to connect with other readers who loved the romance genre as much as we do. I started blogging because 1) I like to hear myself talk and 2) there was no one in my real life who I could talk books with. Yep, that’s right. The librarian didn’t have a soul to talk to about romance novels. No joke. I was a drowning woman. I was desperate. So I went to the web.

Kristie has never lost sight of this. I also know that she’ll never think that she was the sole reason that Broken Wing sold well for Medallion. Hey, the pretty good review the book got in Publisher’s Weekly didn’t exactly hurt matters. No, Kristie didn’t “make” that book – but she did jump start what most authors and publishers kill for.

Word of mouth.

Kristie got close to 30 bloggers to read that book. And some of them loved it as much as she did. They blogged about the book. They told friends who aren’t online about the book. And then those friends told other friends.

Do I think bloggers can “make” books? Not entirely. But they can build momentum. Broken Wing is the best example we have so far. It helps that it was from a smaller publisher, who doesn’t have the same sort of name recognition as say, Random House or Harpercollins. It also helps tremendously that it was KristieJ promoting the hell out of that book. Why? Because I’m not sure any other blogger could have done what she did.

People read and like Kristie’s blog for one reason – because Kristie is the one blogging. She’s a genuine person with a genuine “voice.” She’s “regular people.” That’s attractive as hell to a whole lot of readers. When they read Kristie’s blog it’s like meeting their best friend for coffee. So when she got really excited over a debut author’s book for a small publisher? The people who read and like her blog listened. Hey, people read and like my blog too – but I can say for certain that me loving a book and giving it a glowing review doesn’t have the same impact. Why? Because Kristie turned promoting Broken Wing into an event.

I think as the online romance community continues to grow, and new social media platforms come to the forefront, there will be more opportunity to observe what impact bloggers and readers have on the publishing industry at large. Reader bloggers can be a valuable promotional tool for authors and publishers if utilized the right way. It worked in this instance because Kristie loves Broken Wing, she is genuine about that love, and it showed through in her blog posts about it. The moment reader bloggers try to morph themselves into publicity machines is when we fail. It won’t be genuine anymore and it will be really blatantly obvious to people reading our blogs. We all got into this game because we love books, we love reading, and we love the romance genre with an unflinching loyalty. We should all take a page from Kristie’s book and remember that.

Lawson’s review of The Promise (The Behaim Family, Book 2) by T. J. Bennett
Historical romance released by Medallion Press 1 May 09

T. J. Bennett continues her series set in 16th century Germany in The Promise. If you haven’t gone out and started reading the first in the series, The Legacy, you definitely should. With a setting that’s not often seen (I think it’s the only time I’ve seen it actually) and a time period that’s not touched upon much, outside of England, The Promise is on the same level as The Legacy, and that means you should run out and pick this one up as well.

The story opens showing the young heroine, Alonsa García de Aranjuéz meeting a young man in the courtyard of her home. Instead of running off with him, as he hopes, they are caught and he suffers a mortal injury, for which he blames Alonsa and curses her and any who might love her. Fast forward a bit and it’s ten years later in Italy. Alonsa is twice widowed and her current fiancee, Martin Dietrich, is dying from battle wounds. She chose him because he didn’t love her and was a Landsknecht (a mercenary for hire).

With his dying breaths, Martin gets his friend Günter Behaim to promise to take care of Alonsa since he knows that Günter has been in love with her for some time. Though Alonsa is unhappy about the promise, she convinces Günter to escort her to Genoa to take a ship back to Spain. Along the way Günter manages to convince Alonsa she should marry him, but things go awry when the French attack and when they are separated both Günter and Alonsa try to do everything to make it back together.

Alonsa is one of few historical heroines I’ve read in a long time that’s been married twice. Since both her husbands loved her in their own ways, they ended up dying because of the curse, or so Alonsa believes. She was pretty realistic for a Spanish woman of the time. Catholic, but still having superstitions when it comes to gypsy curses. Though she’s traveling on her own, she’s selling her father’s swords and that’s how she encountered the German mercenaries.

Günter, who is Wolf’s brother from The Legacy, had a brief role in the first book. The reason he and his brother aren’t close is explained in this story, which had more impact than if it had been explained in the first book. Günter has been traveling as a mercenary for most of his adult life and knows he’s found someone he can settle down with when he meets Alonsa. Having hid his feelings from her for so long, when he can finally marry her he does the smart thing and holds back until he knows Alonsa won’t run scared from her own feelings.

There’s a sweet secondary story with Alonsa’s friend Ines and a young mercenary named Fritz who works hard to woo her. While Alonsa and Günter were concentrating on being honest with each other and not being superstitious, Fritz and Ines concentrate on overcoming their own pasts and how they can accept themselves at the same time as accepting each other. Both of these stories worked very well, but it seemed there was a bit too much concentration on the love aspect and not the love for the rest of one’s life aspect. I’m not sure that people were as fixated on the idea of true love bringing ultimate happiness, but it’s not too much to overwhelm the characters and their path to happiness.

The setting, of course, is the other great part to the story. This time set in Northern Italy during the Battle of Pavia in 1525, there’s a view of how life would have been like for these two foreigners in a new land. And neither character are of the nobility. In fact the only noble is one of the minor characters and he’s from France. It’s refreshing and told very well and I hope T.J. Bennett continues writing in these new and different historical settings. They really help make the story and give lots of interest to the plot as well as seeing great characters fall in love.

Grade: A-

Read other reviews of books in this series by following the series’ tag.

Summary:
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A sacred pledge and a gypsy’s curse drive this medieval love story. Günter Behaim, a professional soldier in the service of Emperor Charles V, has been hardened by betrayal and disloyalty in his life, and he has sworn to make few promises of his own and keep those until death. When his closest friend is mortally wounded on the battlefield, however, Günter pledges to marry the other man’s betrothed and keep her safe. That woman turns out to be a Spanish beauty named Alonsa García de Aranjuéz, but she will have no part of such an agreement.
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Trying to keep his promise, Günter uses every weapon in his romantic arsenal to convince the reluctant woman to marry him, and he begins to love her very much. Meanwhile, Alonsa is falling in love too, but she dares not reveal her feelings because she is under a curse that brings misfortune to any man who loves her. As war draws near and danger surrounds them, the couple has to make a crucial decision: accept their fates or risk everything to be together?
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Read an excerpt here.

Other books in the series:

Lawson’s review of The Legacy (The Behaim Family, Book 1) by T. J. Bennett
Historical romance released by Medallion Press 1 Apr 08

If anyone has been looking for a romance set in a time and place other than 19th century England or a medieval set in England or Ireland or Scotland or even the British Isles in general, this is a book for you. It’s set in 1525. In Saxony. That’s right, it’s in the Holy Roman Empire (or the German area of Europe) and it’s right after the Protestant Reformation has started in Wittenburg after Martin Luther nailed the 95 Theses to the church door. Talk about a setting that’s not that popular, and Bennett definitely runs with it.

Baronesse Sabina von Ziegler has traded one prison for another. Locked away in a convent by her greedy adoptive father she escapes and comes home to reclaim her inheritance, only to find herself locked in the dungeon by her father for refusing to help him in any way. Her only way out is to marry a man her father has found for her, though she knows that there are many ulterior motives in play that she doesn’t know much about.

To hide the shame from his father’s death and debts, Wolfgang Behaim agrees to the marriage to Sabina under duress from her father. He’d never planned to marry after his wife died, but Sabina is not what he expected from a former nun. As the marriage progresses both realize they can’t not consummate the union, the attraction is so very strong, but both have demons they need to deal with, as well as the machinations of Sabina’s father and other Reformation events out of their control, to find happiness in the end.

Sabina had a good amount of spunk and backbone for a woman who’d basically been beat down by her father then a convent for the last decade. Not that she didn’t cry when things got tough, but she didn’t let them get her down. Though a Baronesse, she hasn’t had a pampered life and pitches in as she can around Wolf’s household. The scars she carries from her treatment by her father for a tragic incident in her past are overcome in a realistic manner, if it is perhaps a bit out of place in a realistic relationship from the time.

Wolf has the burden of his father’s death, which he’s lied to everyone about, as well as his fear of loving anyone again after his wife’s death in childbirth. Wolf does a lot of pointless fighting of his emotions, even for a male who doesn’t acknowledge his own feelings until it’s almost too late. He’s still a noble guy, running his own printing business in Nuremberg as well as taking over his father’s in Wittenburg. Yep folks, that’s right, our hero is a working man in a historical occupation that makes sense in 1525 Saxony.

I loved the history in the background of this story. Brief mentions of Martin Luther and some of his followers as well as Thomas Muntzer, a troublemaker of the time. It gave a great feeling and setting to the story that brought the period alive, and I’m sure there are not a lot of people familiar with this period in history. I would have preferred if Wolf had been a bit more accepting of his own feelings, but with Sabina’s backbone and the great historical feeling, I’d recommend this one to anyone in the mood for a historical in a fresh setting.

Grade: B+

Summary:
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When her brief, disastrous marriage to a fortune hunter ends in scandal, Baronesse Sabina von Ziegler’s vengeful adoptive father imprisons her in a cloister. She arranges a daring escape and suddenly finds herself betrothed to Wolfgang Behaim, a tradition-bound printer from the rising middle class with a secret that threatens to destroy everything he holds dear. As they fight to discover the truth of the mysteries surrounding the Baron’s machinations, they find themselves challenged by a fiery passion they cannot resist. Can they overcome their past and find love even as lies, war, and an unexpected enemy conspire against them?
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Read an excerpt here.

The Ducks are chatting once again. Welcome!

Today erotic author Lorelei James joins us to talk about her hot and sexy cowboys that her fans adore. If you love reading about cowboys, you should be reading this series. You’ll never look at those Levi-wearin’, bronc-bustin’ men the same way again. Lorelei lives in the Black Hills of South Dakota, so all things western are in her blood. She portrays a very authentic cowboys in speech as well as deed, and she writes them steamin’ hot like nobody’s business.

The sixth book in the series was just released and already those adoring fans are looking ahead to the next book. Long Hard Ride started it all just a little more than a year ago and the Rough Riders series, featuring the McKay family, was born. Just seven months later, Rode Hard, Put Up Wet followed and Lorelei’s books here a hit. A year later, to the day, Cowgirl Up and Ride hit the shelves, followed by Tied Up, Tied Down, Rough, Raw and Ready, and just last week Branded as Trouble. In between all this, her Wild West Boys, sexy cousins to the McKays, saw the beginning of their series in Mistress Christmas. On top of all this, Lorelei also writes contemporary romances which she talks about in the interview. She’s one busy lady, but she’s taken a few minutes to chew the fat with us today.  Lorelei will drop in to say hello throughout the day, so drop her a hi or a question or any comment you’d like, because she’s giving away a download for any book from her backlist and a Rough Riders T-shirt.

Be sure to check out my review of Branded as Trouble!

So let’s chat!

Duck Chat: I discovered your books late 2007 and have enjoyed every one released since then. What I didn’t know if all this time and just found out is you write mysteries under your real name of Lori G. Armstrong. Yes, I’m behind the times. Tell our readers about the mystery books you’ve written.

Lorelei James: Since 2005 I’ve written four books in mass market paperback for Medallion Press in the Julie Collins series, Blood Ties, Hallowed Ground, Shallow Grave, and Snow Blind. These “medium-boiled” contemporary mysteries are set in western South Dakota. My female lead is a private investigator, a real tough chick who smokes too much, drinks too much, and has lousy taste in men. She’s still grieving over the unsolved death of her Lakota half-brother, and righting that wrong is part of what drives her to right other wrongs, personally and professionally. Despite her tough outer shell, Julie is way more vulnerable than she wants to admit. These books are pretty much “pure” mystery, not romantic suspense, although a shady male love interest is introduced in book two. The series has been well received (Shamus nominations for Blood Ties and Hallowed Ground, a Willa Cather Literary Award for Hallowed Ground and a nomination for Shallow Grave, a High Plains Literary Award nomination for Shallow Grave, and Daphne du Maurier Award nominations for Hallowed Ground and Shallow Grave). Julie was a great character to write, but Snow Blind is the last book in the series. I have the first book in a new mystery series coming out in hardcover from Touchstone/Fireside (Simon & Schuster) in January 2010, entitled No Mercy.

DC: What made you decide to become an erotic author?

LJ: I love to read erotic romance. There’s just something about taking the sexual relationship to the edge that appeals to me.

DC: And why use a different name for your erotic romances?

LJ: Honestly? Because of shelving issues in bookstores and libraries. Since I’ve always written both romance and mystery, I decided whichever genre published me first would get my “real” name. There might be a misconception I took a different name because I’m hiding something or embarrassed about penning naughty tales. Not true. I’m very open and proud about what I write in both genres, but I’m also aware of the dividing line in genre readership: the steamy sex scenes in the Lorelei James books aren’t appealing to most mystery readers, and there isn’t enough romance/sex in the mysteries for erotic romance readers…although, I do get more crossover readership than I ever believed possible!

DC: If you could retire any question and never, ever have it asked again, what would it be? Feel free to answer it.

LJ: Where do I get my ideas from? Easy. I buy them at Wal-Mart.

DC: Your cowboys in your McKay/West family series are some hot and smokin’ men, but they’re also sensitive and loving. How did the idea for the series come about?

LJ: I’ve always loved western romances, but I grew frustrated at the lack of erotic contemporary single title western romances. And if I did find a contemporary western, it never had enough sex in it to satisfy the erotic reader in me. So I decided to write my own story, an old-fashioned saga with a new twist, featuring a family of hot cowboys and the women who love them. Instead of the wink wink, nudge nudge closing the bedroom door at the pivotal moment, I kicked that sucker wide open…and it seems to have struck a chord with those readers like me who were looking for a little more kink to their modern day westerns. Although, John Wayne probably would have run my guys out of town on a rail for their wild behavior!

I love writing contemporary erotic westerns, but I also love writing just contemporary romances, as I’ve done with my non-series books, Dirty Deeds, Wicked Garden, and Babe in the Woods. That’s where the idea for the Wild West Boys series, the West family—the McKay cousins—came about. Not everyone stays in their hometown, especially out here. In fact, most people can’t wait to move away so I wanted to write stories about men who have roots here but aren’t necessarily cowboys. Mistress Christmas is the first book in that series, and my hero, Nick West is a detective in Denver. Miss Firecracker, out in July, features Blake West, who is filling in as a bartender for his buddy, and it is set in Nebraska. Hopefully there will be more.

DC: The sixth book in the series, Branded as Trouble, was just released this last week. Would you introduce us those characters and tell us a little about them?

LJ: This is my first friends-to-lovers story.

Colt McKay has had some issues in previous books. Drinking. Drugging. Sleeping around. Pissing off his family. Shirking his duties at the family ranch. Colt sobered up (with help) at the tail end of Cowgirl Up and Ride, and he’s stayed sober for three years. He’s the black sheep of his family, and, even though it appears he’s got a handle on his substance abuse issues, his family seems to be waiting for the other boot to drop and for him to revert to his bad boy ways. India Ellison, Colt’s best friend, has been clean for eight years, and they met through A.A. Not only is India pierced, heavily tattooed, and the type to openly speak her mind, she owns a tattoo shop, which makes her a bit of an anomaly in Sundance, WY. The theme of the story is two black sheep falling in love, because, really, who to better understand you and accept who you are now? Instead of who you used to be? And it was great fun finding redeemable qualities in characters who at first glance may seem beyond redemption.

Excerpt from BaT:

Early the next morning, Colt stumbled out of his room. Despite his intent to crawl in his truck and head home, a shower was a necessity.

As he crossed the living area, he noticed India’s bedroom door was ajar. He peered through the crack and saw India sprawled in the middle of the bed. Alone. Alone and apparently buck-assed nekkid. Red satin sheets were twisted around her long legs and long arms, covering her torso, but hinting at the curves beneath.

Colt didn’t gawk at her body to see if she was, in fact, pierced everywhere she’d hinted at being pierced. A man could only stand so much temptation. He backtracked to the bathroom.

The hot water lasted all of five minutes. And did the woman own every blasted lotion and potion known to mankind? He counted fourteen different health and beauty product bottles—after he’d knocked them all into the tub. Twice.

Still, he felt a million times better after an ice shower. His injury itched, so he took that as a sign of recovery.

He needed his caffeine fix and didn’t want to stop at the Conoco and chance running into a member of his family. He plugged in India’s fancy coffeemaker and dumped a capful of coffee beans into the grinder. While that machine whirred, he washed the glass coffee pot and the plastic filter basket. It took four cupboards before he found where India had moved the box of paper coffee filters. He filled the water reservoir, reassembled the various parts and hit start.

Colt picked up the trash in his prison room while he waited for the coffee to brew. When he returned to the kitchen, India stormed out of her bedroom.

Pity she’d put on a robe.

“The one day I get to sleep in and you’re up at the butt crack of dawn making enough noise to wake the dead?”

“Oh, I see. It’s different when you’re disturbed out of your beauty sleep. Sucks, huh?”

“Funny.”

“Besides, all I did was make coffee.”

“Then explain what you were doing in the shower? ’Cause it sure as hell sounded like you were throwing rocks.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think your poor head was hurtin’ and it was a hangover talkin’.” Colt clucked his tongue. “Maybe you oughta get to bed earlier if you’re so cranky in the mornin’.”

“How do you know what time I went to bed?”

“I dunno, maybe it was the slamming door at midnight that tipped me off. Or maybe it was your headboard banging against my wall until the wee hours. I got tired of it around one a.m. and listened to my iPod.”

“But Blake finished—”

“Huh-uh. I don’t wanna know about Blake’s big finish because I had enough of the pre-game.” Colt sidestepped her.

“You think I slept with him.”

He shrugged, determined not to let it show how much her horizontal mattress mambo with his cousin bothered him.

“Hey.” Her hand circled his wrist and India yanked him around to face her.

Colt looked into her angry eyes. “What?”

“You are a judgmental jerk, Colt McKay.”

“Me? I didn’t pass judgment. I just pointed out the obvious.”

“Obvious?”

“Hell, I didn’t even mention the candles and soft music and the laughter that preceded all the bedroom noises.”

“Magnanimous of you.”

“I thought so.”

“Hah! You thought wrong.” India’s finger drilled him in the chest. “And it pisses me off that you think so…lowly of me.”

“What else am I supposed to think?”

“That there’s a logical explanation.”

He laughed. “For havin’ a man in your bedroom? After midnight? With the bed slamming against the wall? Sugar, sex isn’t the logical answer, it’s the only answer.”

“Not all men have sex on the brain twenty-four hours a day.”

Tired of her baiting him, Colt crowded her. “Any man with half a fucking brain, who is lucky enough to be in your bedroom at any time, ain’t thinkin’ about nothin’ but how perfect it’d feel to have your hot little body under his. Or on top of his. Or in front of his. Over and over. And if it’d been me? Twenty-four hours would be the minimum amount of time I’d keep you in my bed.”

India stared at him. “Is that what you were thinking about, Colt? Us having sex?”

Yes. Goddammit, that was all he could think about. Why in the hell couldn’t she see it?

DC: How many more books are planned in the series?

LJ: ONE BILLION. Seriously…I don’t know. There’s a whole branch of the McKays I’ve scarcely mentioned, yet some characters’ storylines aren’t conducive to a full-length novel. I’m working through ideas for both the West and McKay cousins. I’ll probably keep writing them as long as my editor and readers are buying!

DC: I’ve heard writers often say their stories take them in surprising directions or that dialogue flows from some unknown place. Is it the same with you? Do your characters surprise you sometimes?

LJ: I think it’d get boring if everything I envisioned for a character/storyline came to pass exactly the way I’d planned it. Sometimes I veer completely off the synopsis. It’s what makes writing exciting for me; my best laid plans oftentimes are shot all to hell—and usually for the better.

DC: Do you ever argue with your characters while you’re writing? Who usually wins?

LJ: Yes. The characters almost always win. If I’m trying to force a character to do or be something and it isn’t working, most times it stops my writing flow. So I’ve learned to listen and let them take me where they want to go–sounds crazy to non-writers I’m sure, as we’re not talking about real people but figments of my imagination.

DC: What is sure to distract you from sitting down and working/writing?

LJ: Usually if I have a really great book I’m dying to read.

DC: Does your husband read your hot and steamy books? How’s he feel about them? Has he been some inspiration for writing your heroes?

JL: Yes, he reads them, but not until they’re available for sale. He is NOT my critique partner. He’s proud of me, and the books, and always says he’s the luckiest man in the world. He’s an inspiration in my real life, rather than in my fictional world.

DC: Do you think you write differently now than you did when you started?

LJ: God, I hope so. I hope I’m getting better with every book. It’s scary to contemplate that readers will always compare your most recent book to the one that got them reading you in the first place—and somehow find it lacking.

DC: When you have the time, what genre do you normally read?

LJ: Paranormal romance because it seems like the only genre I’m not writing in, so it’s purely fun. I keep up with mystery and erotic romance too.

DC: Is there a genre you haven’t tackled in your writing but would like to try?

LJ: Young adult. I’ve been kicking around an idea for a couple of years, every once in a while I’ll bring it up with my daughters…it’s the only time I ask their advice on what they’d like to read in a book.

DC: What advice would you give to your younger self?

LJ: Study harder. Knowing how to tap a keg really won’t get you very far in life.

DC: If you had never become an author, what do you think you would be doing right now?

LJ: Probably still working in my husband’s family’s firearms business, where I toiled for a decade as the bookkeeper before I got back into writing.

DC: Favorite author:

LJ: Mystery: Sue Grafton; Romance: J.D. Robb

DC: Favorite book:

LJ: Of all time? Gone With the Wind

Lightning Round:

- dark or milk chocolate?
milk
- smooth or chunky peanut butter?
smooth
- heels or flats?
flats
- coffee or tea?
Coffee in the morning, iced tea in the afternoon
- summer or winter?
summer
- mountains or beach?
I love the beach, but I live in the mountains
- mustard or mayonnaise?
mayonnaise
- flowers or candy?
Is this a trick question? Flowers…unless the candy is chocolate
- pockets or purse?
Purse, a huge purse that carries everything
- Pepsi or Coke?
Diet Pepsi
ebook or print?
Both – the Sprint “whispernet” feature for amazon kindle isn’t available out here in the Wild West, hence, I returned my Kindle…but I know if I had one, my cyber TBR piles would be catching up with the piles of books in my library. I have an ebookwise that I use, but getting the titles in their preferred format is a pain…and limited without converting the files…which is a pain.

And just for some extra fun:

1. What is your favorite word?
*see answer #7
2. What is your least favorite word?
Grimace or padded
3. What turns you on creatively?
Depends on the day. What I have for deadlines and/or family commitments is usually the deciding factor of what I work on–for me there is no waiting for the muse. I put my butt in the chair and get to work even if I don’t feel like it
4. What turns you off creatively?
Sometimes what turns you off personally is great for inspiring creativity
5. What sound or noise do you love?
The bell ringing on the front door when my kids and my husband come home
6. What sound or noise do you hate?
The new neighbors’ stupid barking dogs and the wild turkeys constant gobbling, clucking and screeching during mating season—which is right now
7. What is your favorite curse word?
*Fuck. It can be a verb, a noun, an adjective, an adverb when used properly (or improperly?) I get in trouble for using it too much in real life…and sometimes in fiction
8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
As long as we’re pretending…I’d love to be an international spy like Sydney Bristow on “Alias”—cool disguises, hot men, and that air of mystery
9. What profession would you not like to do?
I wouldn’t like to be the person from the state highway department who has to pick up dead animal carcasses from the roads and ditches. Lots of dead critters on the roads here in South Dakota, and in the summertime, I can’t imagine the smell
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you
arrive at the Pearly Gates?
“Wow. We must’ve really lowered our standards.”

Thanks so much, Lorelei, for being with us today!

Sandy M’s review of Broken Wing by Judith James
Historical Romance published by Medallion Press 1 Nov 08

Every now and again a story comes along that pulls at your heart, wrings emotion out of you until nothing is left, defies you to hope for that happily ever after that you take for granted in every romance book you pick up. This is definitely one of those books for me. The fact that this is Ms. James’ debut book makes it all the more special.

The beginning of the book gives us Gabriel realizing his life is about to get worse than it’s ever been. The one person who is his friend in the horrible world Gabriel has grown up in is about to return to his family.  He has protected James for the last five years, something that has kept Gabriel living.  Gabriel has been thoroughly tutored in the art of sex.  He is more than capable of pleasuring a woman or a man.  He is highly valuable to the brothel he’s been in nearly all his life. Too many times his hope over the years has been crushed, so now with the prospect of not even having James in his life, the world is a very dim place for Gabriel.

Until he meets Lady Sarah Munroe and Ross, the Earl of Huntington, James’ siblings. They offer him more hope than he’s ever had in his life. To repay him for befriending their brother, for bearing any punishments that were to be given to the child, for keeping his innocence intact, they offer Gabriel a place in their home as a companion to James. Grasping onto that lifeline, Gabriel leaves the hell of his existence behind. It takes some getting used to, not expecting people to take from him at every turn, but eventually Gabe finds peace.  He also learns how to love, all with the help of Sarah.  Her tenderness and her love saves him even from himself.

Once their love is declared, Gabriel is determined to take care of Sarah with money made with his own hands.  What he has learned since leaving the brothel is privateering on the high seas, so he heads out one last time to make his fortune so he and his love can be together forever. Of course, we know that isn’t going to happen any time soon, Gabriel has to go through so much more before total happiness is his.  I found myself thinking over and over again when is this man going to get a break. When he is lost at sea, he ends up in the hands of a man from his past, and this is what nearly breaks the hero my heart has gone out to since the first page of the book.

I love Sarah’s character because she never condemns Gabriel for what has been done to him, as a lot of people have.  He is always afraid to tell her that next horror of his life, but when he does he never receives recriminations from her. He gets nothing but understanding, love, and tenderness, something he doesn’t know what do to with in the beginning. But he’s a man who craves such things and he latches on to both Sarah and her loving ways to find the happiness in life others take for granted.

This is a wonderfully written book. Your heart will break, then soar, break again, and then wonder if it will ever soar again during this story. I did want to scream at Gabriel during the second half of the book when he seemed to give up too quickly, but I simply couldn’t because not only of what he’d been through, but also because of how he sees himself, which without Sarah, is something he doesn’t see very clearly.  Ms. James has given us a beautiful romance and love story with characters who will stay in your heart for a long time to come.

Grade: A+

Summary:

Abandoned as a child and raised in a brothel, Gabriel St. Croix has never known tenderness, friendship or affection. Although fluent in sex, he knows nothing of love. Lost and alone inside a nightmare world, all he’s ever wanted was companionship and a place to belong. Hiding physical and emotional scars behind an icy façade, his only relationship is with a young boy he has spent the last five years protecting from the brutal reality of their environment. But all that is about to change. The boy’s family has found him, and they are coming to take him home.

Sarah Munroe blames herself for her brother’s disappearance. When he’s located, safe and unharmed despite where he as been living. Sarah vows to help the man who rescued and protected him in any way she can. With loving patience she helps Gabriel face his demons and teaches him to trust in friendship and love. But when the past catches up with him, Gabriel must face it on his own.

Becoming a mercenary, pirate and a professional gambler, Gabriel travels to London, France, and the Barbary Coast in a desperate attempt to find Sarah again and all he knows of love. On the way, however, he will discover the most dangerous journey, and the greatest gamble of all, is within the darkest reaches of his own heart.

Read an excerpt.

Starting a little bit of a roll here, I suppose. That and Sybil has cracked the whip and demanded these contest winners get posted by the end of the day. Which is good news for the winners, but to be honest I would rather be reading. What? Don’t judge me, I’m being a good duckie and doing what I’ve been told. Instead of reading.

But more contest winners! Woot!

The winners of a signed copy of Vanquished are:

Darla

Mary M.

Andrea

Congratulations to the three winners and be sure to email your physical address to Sybil at redwyne @ gmail .com so that she can send you your prize.  Be sure to put “VANQUISH ME SYBIL” in the subject line of your email!

Lawson’s review of Untamed by Hope Tarr
Historical romance released by Medallion Press 1 Feb 2008

This is the third in the series about three orphans who have come into their own. The first book followed Hadrian St. Claire, the second Gavin Carmichael, and now Patrick O’Rourke has his turn. Rourke has appeared in the first two books in the series, offering advice when his two friends have hit a rough patch with their respective loves. The question is to see if he can follow his own advice when things hit the rocks with his own new bride.

There’s some time backtracking in this story. The first few chapters revisit a few scenes from the first two books, instead from Rourke and his intended bride, Lady Katherine Lindsey’s point of view. One scene at a ball, an unfortunate wager and the fallout from that, and then the eventual wedding, which happens about the same time Enslaved ends.

Though Shakespeare has a small part in Enslaved, with Daisy’s part in As You Like It, the bard has a larger influence in the fact that as a joke, a copy of The Taming of the Shrew is given to Gavin. Lady Katherine has an unfortunate reputation as a shrew due to her sharp tongue and snobbish demeanor. It’s a front though, since her father is a wastrel and she has a pampered and spoiled younger sister. She’s trying to keep up appearances since her father looses money far too easily.

Kate is then has no choice to marry Rourke under some blackmail, but he doesn’t really know how to treat his new wife. When The Taming of the Shrew finds its way to his hands, he decides to follow the route of Petrucio. Which is probably where the mistakes start. For one thing, Petrucio is the one Shakespearian main character who doesn’t grow and change in a play. He’s always who he is and it’s Katarina that changes and becomes a different person.

Neither Rourke nor Kate, though, really seem to give anything. When they finally seem to be getting along and things are going well, a wrench is thrown in the works and the bond that had been built dissolves like sugar in the rain. Yes, there’s a HEA, but not without some meddling of Daisy and Callie and makes the whole thing rather hollow in the end. Much like the love at the end of Shrew. Though Katarina comes when her husband calls, it’s more for outward appearances rather than because she is there to obey what her husband.

The best way to sum things up actually kind of goes along with the cover. The model is walking with head up high, but her pose is awkward at best, painful at worst and just looks like it’s trying to be something it’s not. How disappointing that the first two books in this series were rather wonderful, and this one didn’t measure up.

Grade: C-

Summary:

“The Men of Roxbury House” wraps with Patrick O’Rourke–Rourke–and Kate’s rocky road to romance, due out February 2008. A marriage based on blackmail takes a surprising turn in this refreshing retelling of Shakespeare’s “Taming of the Shrew.”

Former Roxbury House orphan, Patrick O’Rourke is a rough and ready Scotsman as well as a successful self-made businessman. Lady Katherine Lindsey–Kate–is a beautiful English spinster, a gentlewoman. When she finds herself blackmailed into accepting a marriage of convenience with the handsome Scot, she lets Rourke see another side of her. Following a hasty wedding, Rourke sweeps a seething Kate from the elegant and refined drawing rooms of west London to his crumbling castle in the Scottish Highlands. The only guide he has to wooing and bedding the stubborn spitfire he’s taken to wife is a copy of Shakespeare’s “Taming of the Shrew.” But as passion sparks between them, Rourke finds he may well be in danger of being tamed.

Click on the “Untamed” tag for an excerpt on this site.

Ok, this should have gone up before the excerpt from Untamed, but uh. . .I don’t want to point fingers or blame anyone, so it’s just going up now! It really is a good book.

SNEAK Peek from Chapter 3

Ever felt like you were leading a double life? Sparks fly and passions flare when former Roxbury House orphans, oh-so-proper barrister, Gavin Carmichael and music hall chanteuse Daisy Lake AKA Delilah du Lac meet fifteen years later in a smoky London supper club. Can this on the surface mismatched couple really have a shot at a sexy second chance at love?

E-X-C-E-R-P-T

“The boy I love is up in the gallery,

The boy I love is looking down at me,

There he is, can’t you see, waving with his handkerchief,

As merry as a robin that sings in a tree.”

—The Boy I Love Is Up in the Gallery, Music hall song made famous by Marie Lloyd

The song spiraled to a close, and Daisy parked herself by the piano to catch her breath. Draping an arm about the pianist, she called out, “Maestro, for my final number give us a cross between spicy and sweet, if you please.”

Each night, her act concluded with her selecting one man from the audience to bring up onstage for her most seductive number. This night’s selection would be “A Little of What You Fancy,” made popular by music hall legend, Marie Lloyd. Like any song, it was the delivery more so than the lyrics that set the tone of the piece. A suggestive smile, a shimmy of shoulders or hips, a subtle inflection of voice could transform the most demure of drawing room melodies into the bawdiest of ballads. It was all in good fun, and the audience ate it up as evidenced by the hefty tips that came her way afterward.

The handsome dark-haired man sitting at one of the front row tables with his friends had caught her eye from the very first. A real gentleman, she’d thought, but beyond that he had the look of someone she’d once cherished and lost, Gavin Carmichael, the orphan boy she’d idolized as a child. For a split second, she’d actually thought he was Gavin before dismissing the notion as fancy fed by wishful thinking and a more than passing resemblance. Taking in his confident carriage, the apparent ease with which he chatted with his tablemates, and the habit he had of looking everyone, including her, squarely in the eye, she told herself he couldn’t possibly be the sweet, stammering, slope-shouldered boy of her memory.

Like Gavin, this solemn-eyed man struck her as the serious sort, not one to appreciate being singled-out and subjected to a feather boa looped lasso-like about his immaculate shirt collar—which made the prospect of tweaking that aristocratic nose and coaxing a flush into those high-boned cheeks all the more irresistible.

From the orchestra pit, a drum roll sounded, her cue to sashay down the stage stairs and choose her night’s “victim.” Summoning her most sultry smile, she announced, “I’ll need a volunteer from the audience. Whichever of you fine, strapping gents shall it be, hm?”

Predictably, hands shot up to the sky along with calls of “Over ‘ere, sweet’eart,” and “Pick me. Me!”

Playing to the crowd, she pursed her painted lips into the pout she knew from experience would turn every man within eyeshot into a randy, raving lunatic. “Oh, my so many gallants to choose from, my poor head is spinning.”

Tapping a finger to the beauty patch beside her mouth, she made a show of scanning the audience, pausing every now and again to hesitate over a pair of pleading eyes or to smile into a flushed face, all the while knowing exactly who she would pick—the dark-haired archangel with the sad, solemn eyes and the beautiful lips. For the span of a single song, she simply had to have him.

“I think it will be…you!” She stabbed her finger at him and then crooked it, beckoning him onstage.

Looking like a startled stag confronted with a hunter’s rifle, for a handful of seconds he stared at her unmoving. One of his grinning friends jabbed him in the side. Coming to, he looked back over his shoulder as if the object of her pointing must be sitting at a table behind him. Daisy hid a smile and silently counted off to five. By “four” he’d turned back to her, expression horrified. Staying in his seat, he jerked his head back-and-forth and mouthed “no.”

He’s shy, she thought, followed by how delicious. After two solid weeks of being ogled by brutes and occasionally pawed by the bolder ones, the prospect of having to coax a man onstage with her was strangely titillating. Watching the mortified flush spread over his high-boned cheeks, she felt a jet of warmth shoot between her thighs and was startled by it. Though her act was overtly sexual, when performing she was very much detached from her body. More often than not, she felt as though she’d left her physical self entirely, as though she were the puppet master pulling the strings behind the scene of a Punch and Judy show only instead of Punch, the puppet she manipulated was called Delilah. The byplay and banter she kept up with the males in the audience was entirely for show. The allure of her act rested on her ability to convince every man in the room she must be mad for him, but the truth was she’d never once felt the slightest sexual stirring while onstage—until now.

Heart drumming and palms perspiring, Gavin watched Daisy sashay down the steps, the spotlight following her as she headed straight for him. As much as he’d wanted to see her, becoming part of her act hadn’t been any part of his plan.

She drew up at their table. “Bonsoir, gents. Do any of you lads know French? It’s the language of love after all.” Even though she addressed the trio as a group, Gavin didn’t miss how her eyes never left his face. God, Daisy.

Rourke volunteered Gavin to speak any language she fancied and gamely suggested they commence with Latin. Faces wreathed in grins, he and Hadrian shifted to the side to make room.

Daisy flung her slender arms out to the side and announced to the audience, “I think our handsome friend must be shy. Are you shy, sweetheart?” Gaze locked on Gavin’s, she leaned over the table, sending cleavage spilling out the top of her gown, and ran her tongue along the seam of her lips, a slow, deliberate slide that had the heat pooling in his groin. Straightening, she called out to the other tables, “Come on fellows, this fine young gentleman wants for encouragement. Let’s give it to him, shall we?”

A wave of boos and hisses rolled over the room. From the back, someone called out “Pisser” and another more benign voice added, “Lucky bloke,” but for the most part Gavin was too caught up in his beautiful tormentor to pay them much heed.

Wrenching his gaze away from her, he pleaded with his friends. “You go, Patrick. You fancy being front and center more than I.”

“Not a chance.” Rourke reached across and slapped him on the back. “It’s your night. It won’t kill you to have a bit of fun for once.”

Mortified, Gavin swung around to Hadrian. “Harry?”

Hadrian shook his head and then gave him a thumbs-up. “Can’t, mate. Callie would have my cock on a platter if she ever found out and even if she didn’t, I’ve had more than my share of show girls in my bachelor days. Pretend you’re in court before the judge and jury if that helps you. Whatever it takes, go to!”

Gavin started to answer he didn’t care to “go to,” but instead found himself swallowing a mouthful of feathers. Standing behind his chair, Delilah ran practiced palms over his shoulders and down his shirtfront, stopping barely above the waistband of his trousers. Fingers pointed downward, she brought her mouth over his ear. “Either be a sport and come on stage with me or have me finish out my act here. What’s it to be, chéri?”

The threat levered Gavin to his feet. Face burning, he submitted to her winding the boa about his neck and then using its tail as a leash to lead him onstage. He mounted the platform amidst raucous applause just as two burly stagehands set down a gilded chair sideways in the spotlight.

“Take a load off, love,” she said, shoving both hands against his chest. Falling back into the seat he caught a whiff of the cool, clean scent of peppermint on her breath, her favorite sweet from all those years ago.

Like Delilah seducing Samson or Salome dancing for Herod, she circled him, her swaying movements matching the tempo of the music, her every teasing gesture designed to arouse. Standing in front of him, she slowly peeled off her elbow high opera gloves finger-by-finger; the left hand with her teeth, a slow, seductive striptease. Gavin sucked in his breath, hoping his erection wasn’t visible to the audience as it must be to her.

She bent over him, grabbing the back of his chair with both hands. Her breasts were a hairsbreadth from his mouth, her green foxfire gaze a burn he felt like a brand on his flesh. In the subdued lighting, her skin, very white and slightly damp, glowed like pearls.

Turning her face to the side, she called out, “I think he likes it, gents. What about you?”

The crowd roared its approval and Gavin more than suspected his wasn’t the only hard-on in the room. Coins fell upon the stage floor like hail, one striking Gavin in the outer thigh. Delilah smoothed her hand over the smarting spot and cooed, “Poor baby,” loud enough for the audience to hear. The next thing he knew she was in his lap, or rather straddling it, a leg on either side of his chair. Hands braced atop his shoulders, she wiggled her bottom, her sultry smile telling him she was feeling every brick hard inch of him.

All at once, her eyes flashed open and her jaw dropped, taking her smile with it. “Gavin?”

He nodded. His mouth felt too dry for speaking but he managed to mouth the words, “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

In that moment, he forgot he was on stage, forgot he was a respected barrister in a compromising, some might say humiliating position, a collar of feathers about his neck and a boner tenting his trousers. Feeling as though his blood had turned to molten lava, he threw back his head and fitted his hands to her hips and let her dance in his lap in time to the music.

She pulled back, and he fancied the sudden hitch to her breathing and the trembling of her thighs wasn’t part of the act. That now that she saw him for who he was, she was feeling it too, something so bold and powerful and altogether erotic that surely simple lust must pale in comparison.

The music built to crescendo. Her eyes found his. Looking apologetic if not precisely shame-faced, she whispered, “It’s the finale. I’m…I’m sorry.”

Before he could ask what she was sorry for, she arched back, and he found himself on eye-level with her splayed thighs, a sliver of moist pink flesh peeking out of her the slit in her silky black drawers. Suddenly she flipped over, somehow managing to execute the somersault without kicking him in the face. Bounding to her feet, she turned to the audience. In one smooth motion, she reached down and pulled the drawstring of her bloomers. The garment felt away in two halves, revealing the scanty black lace thong beneath.

To a man, the crowd surged to its feet. More money fell upon the stage, crumbled pound notes this time amidst catcalls and wolf whistles and thunderous applause. Playing to the applause, she strutted up and down the stage, stopping periodically to bend over and pick up the money, a devise to show off her exquisitely tight milk white bottom.

Hands full, she pranced back to the piano and dropped the heap of collected coins atop. “Our volunteer has been a proper sport. He deserves something sweet, doesn’t he, Ralphie?”

The pianist obliged with a violent nod. “Aye, Miss Du Lac, seems he ought to get somethin’ for ‘is trouble.”

Daisy winked, a broad gesture meant to be seen all the way to the back of the room and strolled back over to Gavin, still seated in the chair. She settled a hand atop each of his shoulders and looked long and deep into his eyes. “Fancy a sweet, love?”

Gav, have you brought me your sweets again this time?

Gavin opened his mouth to answer that no reward was required but before he could, she grabbed him by the shirt collar and crushed her mouth to his. Drowning in a sea of peppermint and applause, Gavin shot up from the chair, wrapped his arms about her slender waist, and lifted her off the ground.

Off into the distance, a male voice yelled out, “That’s the way, mate. Give her a good rogering.”

The crude remark returned Gavin to reality. He wrenched his mouth away from Daisy’s and looked over her slender past her to a sea of salivating faces. All at once he remembered where he was and, more importantly, who he was.

“Enough!” He stripped off his evening jacket and threw it about Daisy’s shoulders. Staring into her startled eyes, he said, “This is for your own good,” and swung her up into his arms.

“Runaway Bride” meets Shakespeare’s “The Taming of the Shrew” in Hope Tarr‘s UNTAMED.

Book #3 of Hope’s “Men of Roxbury House” Trilogy

Chapter Two

“And I have thrust myself into this maze,

Happily to wive and thrive as best I may.”

—William Shakespeare, Petruchio, The Taming of the Shrew

Covent Garden Opera House

February 1890

Rourke squinted out into the ballroom where guests were penned in like so many Shetland sheep. “You swore she’d be here.”

Stepping back amongst his friends, Harry and Gavin, he yanked at his collar, the starched points of which had been stabbing into either side of his jaw for the past hour. If seen, the gesture would betray his commonness, but it couldn’t be helped. It was hot. Hot as hell, or best make that hot as Hades as his newly fashionable former Roxbury House friends, Gavin and Harry, had schooled him to say. The enormous crystal chandelier suspended overhead wasn’t solely to blame. Heat from incandescent burners spilled out from the tiered opera boxes, wilting the elaborate floral arrangements and glittering guests, thickening the air with the rank sweetness of dying flowers and ripening flesh, the stench calling to mind the undertaker’s front parlor where once he’d worked as a mourning “mute.”

Since leaving the Roxbury House orphanage at sixteen, he’d worked any number of menial jobs—ditch digger, chimney sweep, and lastly railway navvie. The hard labor had broadened his shoulders and strengthened his back, as well as his will to make something of himself. When he’d entered the pub’s prize fight on a lark and stepped over the ropes to duke it out with the reigning contender, no one, including himself, had expected him to hold out for the requisite three minutes. He’d not only held. He’d won.

What irony that his present abject misery owed to how very far he’d risen in life. And yet at times such as this, when he found himself rubbing elbows with jewel-festooned females and their mustached husbands and beaux, the latter sporting shiny gold watch fobs and fat money clips, he felt the telltale tingling creeping into his palms and the fingers of his right hand, his working hand, starting up with the old familiar flexing jig.

Forcing his fingers still, he reminded himself he didn’t need to be that person anymore. He wasn’t that person. And if the prospect of a pearl-studded brooch or gold tie clasp still had the power to make his hands prickle, the delectable yet-to-be-met “she” brought another very particular part of him to life with the beginnings of a long-unsatisfied ache.

“She” was Lady Katherine Lindsey, daughter to the Earl of Romney and one of London’s preeminent Professional Beauties, young ladies of rank who condescended to allow their pocket-sized photographic portraits, or cartes postales, to be displayed for sale in shops such as his photographer friend, Harry’s. She was also the woman whom the day before Rourke had announced to his two friends he meant to marry.

Harry Stone, known to the public as Hadrian St. Claire, sidestepped the protruding plumes of the grand dame in front of him and directed his gaze out onto the milling crowd. “And so she shall. She may have arrived already.”

Standing on Rourke’s opposite side, his barrister friend, Gavin Carmichael, added his calming voice to the fray. “Mind how long it took us to get through that receiving line. Guests are still arriving. Have patience, Rourke. If she’s here, we’ll find her.”

If Rourke lacked patience, and admittedly he did, it was with good cause. After years in Scotland, he’d come back to London with one purpose: to find a blue-blooded Englishwoman for his wife. He wasn’t looking to make a love match. That would take longer than the fortnight he had left to woo and win. From what he could tell, like Happily Ever After endings, love was the stuff of fairy tales. Once he found a woman of proper pedigree, pleasing looks, and breeding age, he would consider his search ended and his posterity well served. A highborn mother meant that his future children would never be on the receiving end of “the cut direct,” that canny knack aristocrats had for looking through you as though you were made of glass, dirty glass, and then flaring their nostrils and curling their lips as horses did when they smelled something rank.

In the social whirlwind of the past two weeks, he’d so far encountered prim debutantes, brash American heiresses, and randy widows; the latter promising to provide any number of carnal delights. None of them had moved him to give more than a glance or smile in passing, certainly not a proposal of marriage. Determined though he was not to go home empty-handed, he couldn’t stretch out his stay indefinitely. He’d neglected his railway company in Edinburgh far too long. The railway business was as cutthroat as any street scam, the threat from rival companies calling for constant vigilance, the opportunities for swallowing up the smaller fish boundlessly lucrative.

Discouraged, the other day he’d set out for a wee stroll, his meandering footsteps leading him to bustling Parliament Square. That was where he encountered “her,” or rather her likeness in the form of a pocket-sized hand-tinted photograph resting atop the velvet-covered shelving inside Harry’s shop window. The photograph was shot in profile, the woman’s slender hands resting demurely in her lap, her wavy, honey-colored hair drawn up to display the sweet contour of high-boned cheek, lush mouth, and softly rounded chin. Unfortunately the shop was shut up, the shades drawn, the sign turned to closed. Rourke had stood still as a statue in the bracing cold, his face pressed up to the glass, his good eye employed in memorizing every detail of that lovely fine-boned face.

Once he got back to Gavin’s flat, he hadn’t lost any time in asking after her.

“There’s a photograph of a young woman in Harry’s shop window. Dark eyes, light brown hair, hands folded in her lap. Do you know her?”

Gavin had looked up from his open copy of the London Times. “That would be Katherine Lindsey. She’s one of Harry’s PBs, Professional Beauties, and by far his best seller. They’ve worked out an arrangement where she sits for him exclusively. Don’t scowl so. It’s all done in the best of taste, and for the most part, the husbands don’t mind.”

“She’s married, then?” On the walk back to Gavin’s, he’d tried tempering his enthusiasm. For all he knew, his mystery lady might very well be married, engaged, or otherwise beyond his touch. Still, hearing the confirmation sent his hopes sinking like a body weighted with stones tossed into the Thames.

Gavin shook his head. “If you bothered to read anything beyond financial reports, you’d know the lady has made something of a reputation for herself. She’s been engaged three times, and each time she has cried off before the banns were read.”

Intrigued as much by her story as her face, he’d found himself making excuses to stop by Harry’s shop for a second, third, and even a fourth look. Finally he’d swallowed his pride, plunked down his guinea, and purchased a copy of the portrait. It sat propped upon his bedside table, hers the last face he looked upon before sleeping and the first upon rising.

But there was no substitute for the genuine article. The opportunity to encounter Lady Katherine in the flesh had brought him here tonight. Apparently she had some affiliation as a volunteer for the Tremayne Dairy Farm Academy, the charitable recipient organization of that night’s ball. Reckoning that the dance card of a beauty, and a “professional” one at that, would be among the first to be filled, he’d taken up strategic position on the periphery of the dance floor.

“That’s her over there.” Harry’s voice brought him back to the present. “Standing amidst the half-dozen penguins in Lord Dutton’s set. You can’t miss her.”

Excitement gripped Rourke. He felt like a child on the eve of all those bountiful Christmases he’d heard of but never once known. Craning his neck, he scanned the ballroom, the muzzy figures melding into one glittering mass of jewels, plump bare shoulders, and swirling satins and silks. But the trouble with rich people was they tended to speak, move, and dress so very much alike.

Exasperated, he turned back to his two friends. “Point her out to me.”

Gavin spoke up, “It’s a society ball, Patrick, not Billingsgate Market. Pointing is not quite the thing.”

Harry let out a huff. “Hang your pride and put your glasses on, man.”

That was an easy enough recommendation for Harry to make. Handsome Harry, they’d called him back in their Roxbury House days, and with good reason. Blessed with height, blond good looks, and two working eyes, Harry had been coaxing girls out of their knickers before he was old enough to shave. Likewise, tall, dark, aristocratic Gavin had drawn his fair share of female admiration since they’d entered the ballroom. Barrel-chested, blunt-featured, and with a shock of auburn hair that no amount of Makassar oil could seem to tame, Rourke’s rough-hewn looks were less likely to recommend him to a delicate London lassie like Lady Katherine. Having a dodgy eye to boot hardly seemed fair, but certainly he wasn’t the only man in the room wearing glasses. He slid a gloved hand inside his tailcoat’s inner breast pocket and pulled out the detested spectacles. Shoving them on his crooked bridge of a broken nose, he leaned forward.

Like an oyster opening to reveal the pearl sheltered within, the clutch of evening-attired “penguins” parted, bringing their prize into view. Lady Katherine Lindsey peered out from her sanctum and smothered a yawn behind her slender gloved hand.

The first thing that struck him was how very tiny she was. Barely reaching the shoulders of the men ranged about her, she was also slight as a fairy. Following on that thought was that she was far prettier than her picture. Harry might be one of the best photographic portraitists in London, but the photograph he’d taken didn’t begin to do her justice. But then, how could an image imprinted on paper and tinted by hand begin to capture the creaminess of that pale oval face; the wicked, willful flash of those dark eyes; and the wonderful mobility of her lush mouth, berry ripe and fashioned for kissing? The only conceivable flaw he could find was her nose. Seen full face, it was thin about the bridge and slightly longish. An aristocrat’s nose, no doubt it tended to point north, and yet the delicate pinkish tip begged to be tweaked—and kissed.

She must have sensed him staring. Shifting to the side, she cast her gaze over one gentleman’s shoulder and their eyes met. The jolt of sexual awareness struck like a thunderbolt splitting a placid springtime sky, the tingling heat sliding down his spine and settling in his cock. Suddenly glad of the concealing crush, he lifted his champagne flute in silent salute and then knocked back a sip. Warm as piss, just as he’d known it would be, and flat, too. Holding her eye, he choked down the froth and then made a deliberately droll face.

The corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly upwards, affording him a flash of straight white teeth and two devilish dimples bracketing her bottom lip. As if remembering herself, she feigned a yawn and covered her hand over her mouth once more, only this time Rourke knew it wasn’t boredom she sought to smother. It was a chuckle.

“I think she fancies you, mate.” Harry nudged him in the ribs, but Rourke ignored him, refusing to be distracted.

Emboldened, he sent his gaze on a lazy downward glide, the shadowed hollow of her slender throat inviting mouths and tongues to linger. Her cream-colored gown was of obvious quality though simple in style, the décolletage low but not indecently so, just low enough to allow a teasing glimpse of cleavage. Elbow-high white satin opera gloves sheathed arms that were both slender and shapely.

Imagining those lovely arms wrapping about his neck as he peeled away her gown, he asked, “What’s she like?”

He sensed Harry shrug. “She has a reputation as a shrew, and honestly earned from what I hear, though she’s civil enough to me. Always keeps her pose without any fuss or fidgeting, though she’s not much of a talker. Brings her younger sister along to our sittings, no doubt to keep things on the up and up, not that she need bother.”

Irrational jealousy caused Rourke to look away at last. He stole a sideways glance at the handsome photographer, but his friend’s attention was fixed not on Lady Katherine, but instead on a tall, curvy brunette sipping champagne and chatting to several goggle-eyed gentlemen on the far side of the room. Rourke recalled Harry earlier introducing her as Caledonia Rivers, not a PB, but one of his commissioned portraiture subjects, as well as a leader in the women’s suffrage movement.

Harry scraped a gloved hand through his silver-blond hair and scowled. “She’s off-limits, Rourke.”

Ordinarily Rourke’s tastes ran to buxom women with big breasts and long legs. His former mistress, Felicity, was as tall as he, as well as a proper armful. Striking though Miss Rivers was, his thoughts kept turning back to the pocket-sized Venus on the other side of the room.

Happy to have his handsome friend’s interest elsewhere engaged, he clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Dinna fash, man. Bonny as your Miss Rivers is, I’ve set my cap elsewhere.”

Setting his cap for Lady Katherine was but the first step in winning her. In his hard-scrabble experience, winning anything meant fighting for it. Whether he found himself in a London opera house, a pugilist’s ring, or a railway laborer’s hut sleeping three to a bed, jungle law prevailed.

He divided his gaze between his two friends. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s a lady who’s promised me the next dance. . .only she doesna know it yet.”

Gavin and Harry exchanged amused looks. Gavin’s dark brows rose. “Pardon me for asking, but since when do you dance?”

It was a reasonable question. What little grace he possessed was centered in his nimble-fingered hands; otherwise, he’d been born with two left feet.

Rourke grinned and handed Harry his champagne flute.

“Since now.”

Lawson’s review of Enslaved by Hope Tarr
Historical romance released by Medallion Press 1 Oct 07

This is the second in Tarr’s series following three orphans in late Victorian London. The first story follows Harry Stone, now Hadrian St. Claire. This story follows Gavin Carmichael, now a successful barrister working for his grandfather. Gavin has always wondered about Daisy Lake, a fellow orphan who he had to leave when his grandfather came to take him from the orphanage. Gavin is surprised when he finds Daisy performing in a not so wonderful location as Delilah du Lac, lately of Paris music halls.

Daisy is in London because she eventually wants to persue a career as a serious actress. When Gavin sees her on stage he is in shock, but then at the end of her act he steals her off the stage and offers her something she can’t refuse. He promises to help her get a part in a new production of As You Like It if she will live with him for a month. Daisy assumes the offer is to become his mistress, but Gavin wants more than just some nights of pleasure, and he does all he can to keep Daisy around, even when she continues to lie to him.

Gavin is very likeable. Though he was an orphan for a while, before he was 14 he lived with a caring, if poor, family. His mother fell in love with a poor Irishman and ran away from home. After living for a year in the orphanage, Gavin’s grandfather finds him and gives him everything money can buy, but not the loving home he had before he was orphaned. Leaving the orphanage he left Daisy, but he searched for her when he became an adult.

Daisy has always felt abandoned, by her birth parents who left her as an infant, then by Gavin when he was taken away by his grandfather. She was adopted by a very nice theatrical couple who took her to France where she learned to sing and dance and act a little. Because of all these circumstances, plus the attention from some Frenchmen, Daisy doesn’t really trust Gavin, or men in general, and so she sets out to say things to shock him as well as hide herself but not her body.

Daisy was hard to like at first, with her blunt speech, her constant offering of herself, but not her heart and how she kept Gavin at a distance from truly knowing her. It’s understandable though given her feelings of abandonment as well as thinking Gavin had ignored her for so long. She had written him many letters he never returned. What secrets she hides, there are some big ones, and her reasons make her eventually really grow on a person. It takes the whole book to do it, and it’s frustrating why she doesn’t just trust Gavin, but I did like her in the end.

There’s not any sort of dastardly villain in the story, only the things that people need to overcome to really give themselves to another person and let go of the past. One of the things that was a nice surprise was Daisy’s attitude toward sex. She was very open, maybe too blunt about it, but she was open about her wants, needs and desires and wanted to share them with Gavin. Like Callie from Vanquished, she’s not a virgin and not ashamed of that. Which makes for some great and steamy scenes between Daisy and Gavin.

There’s a greater amount of steamy passion than in Vanquished and I liked the path that Daisy and Gavin when on together and how Daisy went from being he daring woman of the world to a well rounded woman who is comfortable as herself and completely with her man.

Grade: B+

     Blurb:

     “Through thick and thin, forever and ever, come what may, we’ll stay together…”

     So goes the solemn pact between orphans Gavin Carmichael and Daisy Lake. The next day will see them separated for more than a decade.

     Years later, Gavin is a successful London barrister haunted by his past – and the memory of Daisy. To distract him from his obsession, his friends coax him out to an East End supper club where the headlining act is the infamous nightingale of the Montmartre music halls, Delilah du Lac.

     Only when Delilah strolls out onstage, Gavin takes one look at her slanted green eyes, sensuous mouth, and long, slender legs and feels recognition flood him. Delilah and Daisy are one and the same woman – a woman he resolves to save from herself at all costs. He storms the stage and carries her off.

     When Daisy confides her dream to act on a proper London stage, Gavin seizes the opportunity to bind her to him. He will see she gets a part in the upcoming run of Shakespeare’s “As You Like It” – provided she agrees to live with him for one month.

     Daisy agrees. Gavin’s offer is too tempting to pass on, and the lanky boy of her memory has matured into an exceedingly handsome man. Sharing his bed for the month will be no hardship. Only as their sensual games increase in intensity, Gavin is the one in danger of being enslaved.

     Read an excerpt.

Lawson’s review of Vanquished by Hope Tarr
Historical romance released by Medallion Press 1 Jul 06

If you’re looking for a different sort of story, setting and characters, this book is for you. Set in late Victorian London, the story follows a leader of the suffragist movement, Caledonia Rivers. She’s a spinster whose whole life is the movement for women’s rights in England. She meets Hadrian St. Claire, a photographer, who has been asked to take her picture for a series of photographs to go along with the passage of a woman’s suffrage bill in Parliament. What, oh what, could happen? Probably anything and everything.

Hadrian has been blackmailed to take incriminating pictures of Callie by a high ranking Member of Parliament who wants to see her not only ruined, but vanquished. Hadrian has some gambling debts he needs to repay and has to accept the deal even though he doesn’t know Callie. However, Hadrian’s objectivity toward Callie falters when he sees she’s vulnerable as well as a well spoken leader of the suffragist movement.

Both Hadrian and Callie are very likable characters. Callie is a tall, voluptous woman, who was degraded when she was younger by her fiance. She has given up the rest of her life for the women’s vote because she doesn’t have the idea that she can be worthwhile to a man. Hadrian shows her through his attention and camera lens that she’s a beautiful woman and he also gives her the means to come out of her shell.

Hadrian is a different story. He’s had a harder upbringing, finally when he was 15 making it to an orphanage by the good graces of the prime minister William Gladstone. Before that Hadrian had been Harry Stone, son of a prostitute with a shady past. With Callie Hadrian sees that just surviving isn’t enough, that she is someone worth spending his life with.

Of course the whole sordid story of the payment for the photography comes out in the end, but what Hadrian does for the woman he loves helps to bring the MP to justice in a satisfying ending to the story. The fact that someone would go to such lengths is true, but done in an over the top sort of way. Also, the ties between the pasts of Hadrian and Callie seem sort of a stretch, but again, could have happened. The lives of the characters haven’t been easy and the societal hardships aren’t glossed over, whether Hadrian’s past or the treatment of the poor women of London.

The style and characters are well done as well as the setting, even if some of the plot devices are a little overdone. The next two books in the series follow fellow orphans of Hadrian’s, Gavin and Patrick, who are briefly introduced and help with some of Hadrian’s views that there’s more to life than just survival.

Grade: B

Blurb:

Known as The Maid of Mayfair for her unassailable virtue, unwavering resolve, and quiet dignity, suffragette leader, Caledonia —Callie — Rivers is the perfect counter for detractors’ portrayal of the women as rabble rousers, lunatics, even whores. But a high-ranking enemy within the government will stop at nothing to ensure that the Parliamentary bill to grant the vote to females dies in the Commons — including ruining the reputation of the Movement’s chief spokeswoman.

After a streak of disastrous luck at the gaming tables threatens to land him at the bottom of the Thames, photographer Hadrian St. Claire reluctantly agrees to seduce the beautiful suffragist leader and then use his camera to capture her fall from grace. Posing as the photographer commissioned to make her portrait for the upcoming march on Parliament, Hadrian infiltrates Callie’s inner circle. But lovely, soft-spoken Callie hardly fits his mental image of a dowdy, man-hating spinster. And as the passion between them flares from spark to full-on flame, Hadrian is the one in danger of being vanquished.

Read an excerpt (scroll down).

CONTEST! Comment here by noon CST [central standard time] according to the blog timestamp with what you like more: Hope Tarr’s historicals or her Harlequin Blaze’s. The prize is one of three copies of this book, all SIGNED by Hope Tarr!