This Earl Is on Fire (22 page)
Read This Earl Is on Fire Online
Authors: Vivienne Lorret
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Max and Juliet are next!
The Season's Original series continues with
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WHEN A MARQUESS LOVES A WOMAN
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Coming October 2016 from Avon Impulse!
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This book wouldn't have been possible without the great team of people at Avon/HarperCollins. Many thanks to my new editor, Nicole Fischer, for your special flair and for your patience and kindness throughout the process. Thanks to Angela Craft and Libby Collins for all the behind-the-scenes work of marketing and publicity. And thanks to Gail Dubov for this stunning cover.
Thanks to Stefanie Lieberman for the brainstorming session that birthed this awesome title (and potential earworm).
Thanks to Lisa Filipe for your completely amazing Tasty Book Tours and the special banners you make.
And thank you to the fans who make my job even more of a dream come true. Seeing your “likes” and reading your comments and e-mails fill me with such gratitude that I feel blessed every day.
Wishing you all the best and more . . .
USA Today
best-selling author
VIVIENNE LORRET
loves romance novels, her pink laptop, her husband, and her two sons (not necessarily in that order . . . but there are days). Transforming copious amounts of tea into words, she is an Avon Impulse author of works including
Tempting Mr. Weatherstone
, The Wallflower Wedding series, The Rakes of Fallow Hall series, “The Duke's Christmas Wish,” and the Season's Original series.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.
The Season's Original Series
“The Duke's Christmas Wish” in
All I Want for Christmas Is a Duke
The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series
The Wallflower Wedding Series
Tempting Mr. Weatherstone
(novella)
Give in to your Impulses . . .
Continue reading for excerpts from
our newest Avon Impulse books.
Available now wherever ebooks are sold.
A B
ACHELOR
L
ORDS OF
L
ONDON
N
OVEL
by Charis Michaels
by Tracey Livesay
A
N
A
MERICAN
V
ALOR
N
OVEL
by Cheryl Etchison
An Excerpt from
A Bachelor Lords of London Novel
By Charis Michaels
Lady Elisabeth Hamilton-Baythes has a painful secret. At fifteen, she was abducted by highwaymen and sold to a brothel. But two days later, she was rescued by a young lord, a man she's never forgotten. Now, she's devoted herself to save other innocents from a similar fate.
Bryson Courtland, Viscount Rainsleigh, never breaks the rules. Well, once, but that was a long time ago. He's finally escaped his unhappy past to become one of the wealthiest noblemen in Britain. The last thing he needs to complete his ideal life? A perfectly proper wife.
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B
ryse
.
He had introduced himself as Bryson that night, so long ago, and despite her residual horror, she had clung to the sweet intimacy of that introduction. She'd devoted years of foolish fantasies to guessing whether those close to him referred to him as Bryson or Bryse or perhaps Court . . .
She looked up at him.
Bryse
. And now she knew. Now she was being invited to become one of those people close to him.
Cowardice compelled her to back away and retake her seat. “Forgive me, my lord.” She spoke to her knees. “I don't know what to say, and that is a rare circumstance, indeed.”
“I would also speak to your aunt,” he assured her. “It felt appropriate to suggest the idea of a courtship to you first.”
She laughed, in spite of herself. “I'd say so. Unless you wish to court my aunt.”
“I wish for you,” he said abruptly, and Elisabeth's head shot up. It was almost as if he knew she needed to hear it again, and again, and again.
I wish for you
.
He crouched before her chair, spreading his arms, putting one hand on either side of her chair, caging her in. “How old are you, Elisabeth?” he asked.
“How old do you think I am?” A whisper.
“Twenty-six?” he guessed.
She shook her head. “No. I am the ripe old age of thirty. Far too old to be called upon by a bachelor viscount, rolling in money.”
“Or”âhe arched an eyebrowâ“exactly the right age.”
She laughed and finally looked away. And she thought he'd been handsome at nineteen. Her stomach dropped into a dip. She reminded herself to breathe.
“Why me?” she asked, looking out the window. “Why pay attention to
me
?”
His voice was so low she could barely discern the words. “Because I think you'd make an ideal viscountess.”
An ideal what?
Hope became a living, pulsing thing in her chest. It became her very heart. She fell back in her seat and closed her eyes, but the room still swam before her.
He went on, “You are mature, and intelligent, and poised. And devoted to your charity, whatever it is.”
A thread of the old conversation. She sat up, determined to seize it before he could say another thing. “I've just told you what the charity is.”
“You spoke in vague generalities that could mean a great many things. I let it go because I hope for more opportunities to learn.”
Elisabeth breathed in and out, in and out. She bit her bottom lip again. She watched his gaze hone in on her mouth.
She closed her eyes. “My lord.” She took a deep breath. “Rainsleigh . . . Bryson.” She opened her eyes. “If your far-reaching goal is to earn an esteemed spot in London society, you're going about it entirely the wrong way. My charity is . . . unpopular, and no one has ever asked to court me before. It's really not done.”
“Why is that?”
Because I have been waiting for you
.
The thought floated, fully formed, in her brain, and she had to work to keep her hands from her cheeks, to keep from closing her eyes again, from squinting them shut against his beautiful face, just inches from her own, his low voice, his boldness.
“I'm very busy,” she said instead.
“Then I will make haste.”
“Is this because of last night? When I . . . challenged your dreadful neighbor?”
The corner of his mouth hitched up. “It did not hurt.”
“It's very difficult for me to stand idly by when I hear a person misrepresented.”
“And to think I was under the impression that you could barely abide my company. Your defense came as a great Âsurprise.”
“Oh . . . I am full of surprises.”
“Is that so?” His words were a whisper. He leaned in.
She had the fleeting thought:
Dear God. He's going to kiss me
. . .
An Excerpt from
By Tracey Livesay
Tracey Livesay makes her Avon Impulse debut with a sparkling and sexy novel about a woman who will do anything to fulfill her dreams . . . but discovers that even the best laid plans can fail when love gets in the way.
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C
helsea Grant couldn't tear her gaze away from the train wreck on the screen.
She followed press conferences like most Americans followed sports. The spectacle thrilled her, watching speakers deftly deflect questions, state narrow political positions, or, in rare instances, exhibit honest emotions. The message might be scripted but the reactions were pure reality. If executed well, a press conference could be as engaging and dynamic as any athletic game.
But watching this one was akin to lions in the amphitheater, not tight ends on the football field. Her throat ached, impacting her ability to swallow. She squinted, hoping the action would lessen her visual absorption of the man's public relations disaster.
He'd folded his arms across his chest, the gesture causing the gray cardigan he wore to pull across his broad shoulders. The collar of the black-and-blue plaid shirt he wore beneath it brushed the underside of his stubbled jaw.
When he'd first stepped onto the platform, she'd thought he was going for “geek chic.” All he'd lacked were black square frames and a leather cross-body satchel. Now she understood he wasn't playing dress-up. These were his everyday clothes, and as such, they were inappropriate for a press conference, unless he was a lumberjack who'd just won the lottery.
Had someone advised him on how to handle a press conference? No, she didn't think so.
Any
coaching would have helped with his demeanor. The man stared straight ahead. He didn't look at the reporters seated before him. He didn't look into the lenses. He appeared to look over the cameras, like there was someplace else he'd rather be. His discomfort crossed the media plane, and her fingers twitched where they rested next to her iPad on the acrylic conference table.
A female reporter from an entertainment news cable channel raised her hand. “Mr. Bennett?”
The man turned his head, and his gaze zeroed in on the reporter and narrowed into a glare. Chelsea inhaled audibly and leaned forward in her chair. His eyes were thickly lashed and dark, although she couldn't determine their exact color. Brown? Black? He dropped his arms, and his long, slender fingers gripped the podium tightly. The bank of microphones jiggled and a loud piercing sound ripped through the air. He winced.
“How does it feel to be handed the title by David James?” the reporter asked, her voice louder as it came on the tail end of the noise feedback.
The camera zoomed in and caught his pinched expression. “Right now, I feel annoyed,” he responded sharply.
“Annoyed? Aren't you honored?”
“Why should I be honored?”
“Because
People Magazine
has never named a non-actor as their sexiest man alive.”
“An award based on facial characteristics is not an honor. Especially since I have no control over the symmetry of my features. The National Medal of Technology. The Faraday Medal. The granting of those awards would be a true honor.”
The camera zoomed out, and hands holding phones with a smaller version of the man's frustrated image filled the screen. Flashes flickered on the periphery, and he rubbed his brow, like Aladdin begging the genie for the power to disappear.
“How does one celebrate being deemed the most desirable man on the planet?” another reporter asked.
“One doesn't.” His lips tightened into a white slash on his face.
“Is there a secret scientific formula for dating Victoria's Secret models? Didn't you used to be engaged to one?” A male reporter exchanged knowing looks with the colleagues around him. A smattering of chuckles followed his question.
“Didn't she leave you for another model six weeks before the wedding?”
“So you're single? Who's your type?”
“What's your perfect first date?”
“Can you create a sexbot?”
Questions pelted the poor man. The reporters had found his weakness: his inability or unwillingness to play the game. Now they would try to get a sound bite for their story teaser or a quote to increase their site's click-through rate. The man drove his fingers through his black hair, a move so quick and natural she knew it was a gesture he repeated often. That, and not hair putty, probably explained the spikiness of the dark strands that were longer on the top, shorter on the sides.
“This has nothing to do with my project,” he snapped, then scowled at someone off-camera.
Chelsea glanced heavenward, grateful she wasn't the Ârecipient of that withering look.