Authors: Coleen Kwan
Coleen lives in Sydney, Australia with her partner and two children. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys avoiding housework, eating chocolate, and watching
The Office
.
Contact Coleen at her website
www.coleenkwan.com
and sign up for her newsletter. She can also be found on Twitter
www.twitter.com/ColeenKwan
and on Facebook
www.facebook.com/coleenkwan.authorpage
.
The worst of times, the most passionate of loves.
The Bookseller’s Daughter
© 2013 Pam Rosenthal
In her family’s bookshop, Marie-Laure Vernet had adventure, romance and mystery at her fingertips. And intrigue, in the form of an enigmatic stranger as unsettlingly attractive as the scandalous books he smuggled. But he disappeared, and so did the bookshop’s meager fortunes.
Forced to work as a scullery maid, Marie-Laure struggles to keep the china in one piece—and herself away from the aristocrats’ wandering hands. Until unexpectedly, the Duc’s estranged son comes home, and Marie-Laure once again finds herself face-to-face with the fascinating stranger.
Joseph has braved every conceivable danger during his secret adventures outside France, but he knows no one is in greater peril than a pretty servant in the employ of his lecherous father. And the only way to protect her is to pretend to be her lover.
Behind his bedroom door, their chaste friendship blooms into a connection more erotic than the stories in any forbidden book. But desire, even love, may not be enough to overcome the forces society has arrayed against them…
Warning: Contains a relationship between a couple who love books almost as much as they love each other.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Bookseller’s Daughter:
Provence, August 1783
Six years before the French Revolution
The rule at the chateau was never to hire a pretty servant. And yet there was no denying that the copper-haired girl serving tea in the library this afternoon was pretty. Clumsy too: if she continued rattling that Sèvres cup and saucer she was going to spatter hot tea all over the Vicomte’s impeccable white stockings.
Bored with each other’s company, the family of the Duc de Carency Auvers-Raimond directed keen eyes in the girl’s direction. Sèvres was shockingly expensive; a servant who broke a piece could expect to be punished—even, or especially, a servant as pretty as this one. The cup rattled more loudly. The family waited in dreamy stillness for the shivering crash of china on the parquet floor.
But none came; only a few faint beige drops of tea marred the Vicomte’s shins, for at the last possible moment, he’d put out a long, deft hand and rescued the cup from imminent destruction.
“Thank you, Marianne,” he murmured.
She managed a curtsy, lowering her eyes from his and blushing beneath the freckles scattered over her cheeks.
Teatime finally over, she made her way back to the kitchen. A narrow escape; catastrophe barely averted. No broken china to sweep up, and—more importantly—no punishment to anticipate. The Comtesse Amélie had only glared at her. Ah well, a glare was nothing. What one had to look out for was the Comtesse’s scowl, the Gorgon-face that meant a thrashing was in order.
She wouldn’t be hurt and she wouldn’t be fired. No servant would be fired today; there was too much work to do. All right, she told herself, she should be glad of the work then. Because her job was the main thing, wasn’t it? Her job, her salary—surely these things were more important than the fact that
he
had clearly forgotten he’d ever seen her before.
Yes, of course.
He
was of no importance whatsoever.
Though it rather pained her to admit that she’d recognized him the instant she’d entered the room. The set of his shoulders, the dark gleam of his eyes: she’d known him immediately. No wonder she’d stopped breathing properly; of course she’d rattled the china.
And, she warned herself, if she continued thinking of him so…so
physically
, she was still in danger of dropping things—this time the whole damn tray. She hurried into the kitchen, laid down the delicate tea things, and tucked her thick curls into a cap, to protect them against soot and grease.
Be honest
, she thought.
Admit the whole truth and be done with it.
She winced; the appalling, humiliating fact of the matter was that since last December she hadn’t let a day go by without thinking of him.
Thank you, Marianne.
And thank
you,
Monsieur le Vicomte.
Even if you don’t remember that my name is Marie-Laure and
not
Marianne.
She pinned a stained apron to the front of her dress. One couldn’t expect an aristocrat to know a servant’s proper name.
Heaps of work awaited her in the scullery. A mountain of pots to wash, a bushel of onions to peel and chop. Plenty of distraction from her troublesome thoughts. She took a heavy knife and sliced off the tip of an onion. Predictably, her eyes filled with tears.
Well, of course
, she scolded herself.
What
else could one expect, from such a strong onion?
There would be a banquet. A chandelier of Bohemian crystal had been installed in the mirrored dining room; tomorrow evening thirty guests would feast under its light in celebration of the Vicomte’s visit.
He’d arrived only this morning, together with his mother the Duchesse. No one among the chateau’s army of servants knew what had brought about the sudden family reunion.
“The Duc’s illness could have taken a turn for the worse,” Jacques, the Duc’s valet, had speculated that morning at breakfast. “The doctors looked graver than usual, last time they visited.”
“Perhaps they’re selling off some property,” someone else suggested. “
That
will usually bring a family out of hiding, to clamor for their share. Or perhaps it’s time to find a wife for the Vicomte Monsieur Joseph.”
It would have to be a matter of some import, everyone agreed, to pry the Duchesse away from the convent that had been her home for the last few years.
“Of course, the Duc was always a wretched husband, even when he had his wits about him.” Nicolas, the chateau’s general manager, prided himself on his knowledge of the family’s history. “Joked in public that the Duchesse was a prune in bed. Had a list of mistresses as long as your arm, and you couldn’t keep him away from the maids and village girls.” Which was why, now that the old man was too enfeebled to have a say in things, his daughter-in-law tried not to hire pretty servants.
But even Nicolas hadn’t known Monsieur Joseph’s whereabouts these past few years. There were rumors of duels, prison, exile, even a sojourn in America.
“America?” Marie-Laure was an enthusiastic supporter of the recent revolution in the English colonies. How wonderful, she thought, if Monsieur Joseph
had
joined the Marquis de Lafayette in the fight for American independence. How worthy. And how utterly improbable that a member of this nasty, spoiled family would do any such thing.
The group in the kitchen would have been pleased to gossip the morning away but Nicolas hustled them off to work. And so all Marie-Laure had learned of the Duc’s younger son was that he’d been his father’s favorite and hadn’t visited in more than a decade.
But
I
know something that Nicolas doesn’t
, she thought, putting aside the last onion and moving over to skim the foam from the veal stock.
I know what he was doing last winter. He was smuggling forbidden books into France. And cheating booksellers. Well, at least he cheated me and Papa.
Of course, last winter she hadn’t known who he really was. But she’d suspected he wasn’t what he seemed. She’d liked that about him.
The sights and smells of the busy kitchen dissolved into the steam rising from the stockpot. She was in a shabby, beloved room—with books, books everywhere.
Home.
Love is madness.
An Indiscreet Debutante
© 2013 Lorelie Brown
When Miss Charlotte Vale isn’t running a school for impoverished factory women, she takes tea with an insane painter—the mother she adores. Determined to avoid her mother’s legacy of madness, Lottie refuses to marry and nurtures the
ton
’s
bemused disregard for her reputation.
Through her door strides a man who threatens all she holds dear. Her cherished school, her careful control and her guarded heart.
Sir Ian Heald has tracked his sister’s blackmailer to her last-known location—Lottie’s school. Although he would burn the place to the ground if it would save his sister’s reputation, Ian is drawn to Lottie’s bold candor and indifference toward polite society.
To find his sister’s blackmailer, Ian follows Lottie into a twisted world of illegal gambling clubs and eccentric parties. Even when their mutual passion ignites, Ian knows their affair cannot last. Lottie was never meant to be tucked away on his quiet pastoral estate, and she staunchly refuses his desire to wed. Yet fiery kisses and scandalous showdowns tempt this proper country gentleman to win the woman he loves and never let her go.
Warning:
This book contains gambling in low-class clubs, deliciously deadpan dialogue, an unplanned swim to rescue doused women, and a fast, furious spanking. She wants it though, so that hardly counts.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
An Indiscreet Debutante:
He couldn’t have been more shocked to see her. His lips parted on silence. Someone had found him a banyan. The dark blue silk wrapped around his torso, and he wore dark trousers beneath, but under
that
his feet were bare. He had pale and slender feet and toes with a tiny sprinkle of dark hairs across the top.
Her fingers curled into her palms.
They’d brought the tea, and he sat at a table next to the window. A tree’s leafy green canopy obstructed most of the view through the window, but she knew that was no hardship. Next door was a brick townhouse.
She needed assistance keeping her brain inside her skull because she was losing it. The throbbing, heavy weight in her blood was expanding through her whole body, the way she’d always feared.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said after a long moment.
Likely he’d tired of waiting on her to be less insane. “It’s my house. I’m allowed to be anywhere I like.”
“I doubt that.” He leaned one elbow on the arm of the chair. The embroidered lapels of the robe parted enough to display three inches of his chest. There was a division between two thick muscles. He was a man who hadn’t ignored his body.
He made her want to not ignore her own body.
Losing her virginity had been an idle thought, one born of convictions and supposition. Not need. Not any amount of want. She ranged closer to the table, closer to him. Her fingers trailed over the cold metal edge of the tea tray.
“I’m all but mistress of this domain.” She nudged a plate of iced biscuits to the side in order to get at a tiny dish of cubed sugar. The piece she picked up was rough between her thumb and finger. She rubbed it over her bottom lip, then licked away the grains left behind. Sweetness burst over her tongue.
He never moved. His hands didn’t shift, nor did his feet, nor any other variety of limbs. The tilted-down angle of his chin stayed still, and he watched her from under thick, dark lashes.
Despite not moving, he was…alive. Aware of her and of the heat that flowed back and forth between them. Far, far away in the recesses of the house a timepiece chimed. Between them was the thick molasses of promise and potential. His eyes all but burned her skin, turning the stretch between her shoulder blades into a tickling, sensitive place that begged for his touch.
Except instead of following through with those silent promises, he shook his head, so very slowly. “You don’t want to head down this route.”
She edged closer. Near enough that her skirts folded over and around his calves. His knees. She managed to smile, but no one would ever know what it cost her. The way her lips felt nearly numb. She wanted to run her tongue over them, just to feel.
Maybe she could feel his mouth instead.
She still held the sugar cube. When she lifted it to his lips, it almost seemed that the room would implode from what built and wove between them. He speared her with that wicked gaze, and despite the reluctance she could feel rolling off him, the tiniest quirk of his lips said she hadn’t gone too far astray.
His lips parted for the cube. His tongue darted out enough to wet the tip of her index finger. A full-body shiver rolled over her skin and dove into her veins, turning her into both more and less.
“Maybe I don’t want to wander down the route. Maybe I want to run.”
Ian knew better.
Sugar melted on his tongue. Granules rubbed across the top of his mouth with sweet abrasion. Comparatively, her finger had little flavor, with the slightest hint of warmth and life.
She made him feel like he were Genghis Khan. A conqueror who didn’t need to be bent on taking because the slave girl was already offering him everything she had. Everything she was.