A Marquess for Christmas
Vivienne Westlake
Vivienne Westlake
Genre: Regency, erotic romance, historical romance
Word Count: approx. 25K-30K
Cover Artist: Vivienne Westlake
Book
Description:
A proper widow. A rakish marquess. He rescued her
from thieves, but will she be able to save him from himself?
When Violet
Laurens is rescued from highwaymen, the furthest thing from her mind is that
her heart might tumble next. She loves her independent life, no matter her
lonely bed. The handsome stranger reawakens the passion she thought buried
along with her husband, pushing her to new heights of desire. But she knows
it’s only a matter of time before he remembers his name and leaves her.
The
dissolute Marquess of Kittrick has vowed never to marry, causing a rift in his
family that sets him on the road just in time to do battle with ruffians intent
on stealing a lady’s coins—and more. Discovering the fiery wanton beneath the
widow’s oh-so-proper demeanor makes him want nothing more than to forget who he
is for just a bit longer. Maybe forever.
When Kit is
forced to acknowledge who he is, will the truth trump their shared passion, and
the love they can’t quite admit to? Or will Violet overcome her fear—and Kit
his dissolute ways--and be able to lay claim to A Marquess for Christmas?
About the Author:
Vivienne Westlake has been reading and writing
romance since the age of fifteen. She has a Bachelor’s Degree in English
Literature and when she’s not plotting stories about sexy heroes and sassy
heroines, she’s buying a book on British history, watching the latest teen
vampire show, doing an art project or singing karaoke with friends. Vivienne is
an active member of Romance Writers of America, Romance Divas, and Indie
Romance Ink.
Excerpt: “He still sleeps
fitfully, my lady.” Avery put his hand to the man’s head. “A little warm. We
should get some ice and keep his temperature down.”
“And you have
checked his bandages?” The bleeding had stopped, but the chance of infection
was high. She stood by the four poster bed, looking down at her savior, who lay
still and quiet, despite the people in the room.
“Yes, the wound is
not healed, but neither is it as gruesome as it was yesterday.”
“And he has not
awoken?”
“He tosses and
murmurs and has managed the chamber pot a couple of times, but he does not
speak and his eyes are glazed and unfocused.”
It had been two
days since the incident. She prayed it was the laudanum keeping him so dazed
and not his injury. But they could not be sure yet.
“If he does not
awaken in the next day or two, we shall have to fetch Doctor Littleton. For
now, let us keep him cool and make sure that someone checks on him every hour.”
Violet went to the
window and opened it. The sky was cloudy
and the ground covered with a thin layer of snow. “The fresh, cool air should
do him good.” She rang the bell then went back to the bed and sat down. The
man’s hands felt hot under hers, but she raised them to her cheek to be sure.
Definitely too warm.
“My lady?” Miriam
entered the room.
“Go and fetch some
ice please. If there’s no ice, send a footman outside and gather snow. We need
to keep him cool until his fever breaks.”
She leaned over to
the small bedside table, dipped a cloth
into a small ceramic basin, and wrung it out. “I will see to him for a while,
Avery.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you.”
Gently, she took
the cloth and wiped the man’s face, always conscious of the bandage. She hummed
as she worked. It was a very old song that she’d learned as a girl. Sometimes
her mother would sing it as she stitched.
“Come live with me and be my love and we will
all the pleasures prove. The hill and valley, dale and field, and all the
craggy mountains yield.”
She washed his
arms, noting each twist and turn of muscle. She even tested it with her finger
to see if it was as firm as it appeared. Nothing about him was soft-- except
for his lips and the silky threads of his hair.
She brushed the
towel over his neck and down to the exposed skin at the opening of his tunic.
The hair there was thin and fine. She couldn’t help but stare as she swept over
his chest. His nipples were wide, but tightened into little nubs when she
touched them.
What would it feel
like to run her palms over them? Would they react to her as they did to the
damp cloth? What about her mouth?
Violet turned away
and blushed. She closed her eyes and willed herself to remember him fighting
off the thief and the moment when he’d taken the fateful blow. She needed to
focus on her task and not on the yearnings she felt for a man she barely knew.
She might be
fantasizing about a man of base morals or a man with a wife and four children.
Or, what if he was a clergyman? That she doubted considering his skill with
weapons and his readiness to fight, but what gentleman would watch an innocent
woman get attacked by thieves and not come to her rescue?
A man does what needs must. Even a man
of the cloth will take up a pistol if his life or his country demanded it. She
had seen boys barely old enough to carry a gun with gaping holes in their chest
and villages ravaged and burned in the war.
And this man would
die like the rest, if she did not do her duty to him. He’d saved her and now
she must do the same for him.
With such thoughts
distracting her, she didn’t realize she’d paused her singing until she heard a
low, gravelly voice.
“Sing.”
She looked down to
see dark eyes watching her.
“You are awake!”
“Sing,” he
repeated, but he’d barely finished the word when a ragged cough took over his
body.
“A belt of straw and ivy buds, with coral
clasps and amber studs, and if these pictures may thee move, come live with me
and—”
“Be my love.” His
voice was hoarse, even more than she expected for someone who’d slept for two
days. She lifted from the bed to pour water from the pitcher into a cup.
When she lifted
the cup to his lips, he coughed and it dribbled down his chin. “Easy.” They
tried again, but still, most of the water ended up down his chest. His tunic
absorbed the excess liquid and clung tightly to his body, so she could see
every line and curve. His nipples hardened again.
“Let me try this
another way,” she said. This time, she dipped her fingers into the cup and let
the water drip into his mouth.
He opened wide for
more. She leaned closer, her bosom near his face, and poured more water from
her fingers.
After the third
time, he put her two fingers to his lips and sucked them. A flash of heat shot
through her limbs. If she’d been standing, she would have faltered and lost her
balance.
His mouth was hot
and she suspected it had little to do with his fever.
“More,” he
whispered. He stared at her and she could not move, could not speak.
There was a knock
behind them and that jolted her out of her frozen state. Miriam stood in the
doorway with ice and more water. The man groaned.
She motioned for
the maid to come in. As soon as the girl was close, Violet took a tiny chip of
ice and put it in the man’s mouth.
The ice would help
his thirst, but she also was afraid for him to speak. The need in his eyes was
too real, too close to the desire that she felt. But he was a stranger. A
beautiful, dark, bewitching stranger who had risked his life for her, yet she
knew almost nothing about him.
A fact that she
could remedy. No. What was she thinking? He was wounded, disoriented, and who
knows if he mistook her for his wife or some mistress. A sharp pang twisted in
her gut. Did he have a mistress? She’d already considered that he could be
married, but she hadn’t thought about the possibility of a mistress.
He was a virile,
handsome man with a body any sculptor would worship and carve into stone. She’d
seen it all, every wicked inch of him. The thought of that body being pleasured
by some other woman made her ill.
“Do you or the
gentleman need anything else, my lady?”
“Perhaps the cook
has some broth. But please make sure it is tepid, not hot.”
Miriam set down
the tray of ice and curtsied before exiting the room.
He rubbed his
temples, then when Miriam was gone, he turned back to her. Though he whispered
the word, “Water,” his eyes said something else.
She plopped
another ice sliver into his mouth. He sucked on it, watching her still. She
felt a flush run down from her ears to her belly. If she didn’t know better,
she’d have thought his fever was catching.
A foolish part of
her longed to demand if he had a mistress, but she bit her lip. That was not
the first question she should ask him. And, he was so weak, it was better if he
didn’t speak at all.
She put her hand
to his mouth. “Do not try to speak, sir. You are weary and hoarse.”
He opened his
mouth and before he could argue, she fed him another ice chip.
“You have a fever
and you need to rest.”
His forehead was
still warm. It could be a long night if his fever didn’t break. But he was at
least alert for now, which was a good sign.
She stood up,
intending to move aside the blankets and leave him with the sheet, but he
reached for her arm.
“Don’t.” Under his
stare, she froze again. “Do not. Leave.” Though the words were gravelly and
low, it was a command, not a plea.
“Very well.”
She pulled aside
the blankets, careful not to touch his thighs, and moved a chair close to the
bed. The mere foot of space between her seat and the bed seemed much farther.
Every little movement made her aware of the hard chair beneath her and the cool
air brushing over her skin.
She missed the heat of his body next to hers.
1 comments:
Thank you for hosting me on the blog today. Happy Holidays!
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