Poor Maddie Tate. widowed with two children. Seven and twenty years of age. An ordinary sort of female, no more memorable than a potted palm.
Lucky Angel Jarrow. Temptation incarnate, lazy and spoiled — and why should he not be, when the whole world adored him, save for the notable exception of his wife?
Maddie Tate and Angel Jarrow. In the ordinary course of events, their paths might merely have crossed. But then came the Burlington House bal masque, when Maddie saw murder done.
And fled straight into Angel’s arms.
And neither of their lives would ever be the same.
Angel knew from long experience when a woman needed kissing, and this woman needed kissing now. By him. Here in Lady Rutherford’s garden. Where they were seated, once again, on a convenient bench.
He’d give her a friendly kiss, Angel decided, as atonement for his unsettling talk of danger and death; an affectionate kiss, not the sort that scorched paint off every building in the vicinity. He would soothe instead of arouse, and enable her to forget her troubles for a brief space of time.
At least that was Angel’s intention when he took her in his arms.
She said faintly, “We must not,” and relaxed against him nonetheless.
Angel knew they mustn’t. But her breasts were soft against against his chest, and she smelled of peppermint again.
By the time Angel managed to wrestle his baser instinct into submission, which was no little while later, Mrs. Tate was again arranged across his lap. Angel had no notion how she’d gotten there. He didn’t want her to leave. She nipped his earlobe. He groaned.
Maddie opened her eyes, regarded him with bemusement, and then sprang to her feet. She tugged up her bodice, twitched down her skirt, smoothed her hair, so flagrantly flustered that Angel experienced another sharp stab of desire. He wanted to drag her beneath him on the bench, feel her body arch against his, hear her bed him for completion, notions so heady that it took him a moment to realize Maddie was indeed speaking to him. She concluded, “I fear I have little self-control where you are concerned.”
He smiled up at her. “Whereas I have none at all.”
“Why should you?” she said somberly. “When females are forever flinging themselves at your feet. This cannot happen again. I am not for you, or you for me.”
Angel didn’t follow her out of the pavilion. He was in the grip of some strong emotion. It took him several moments to recognize it as regret.
Murder, mystery and romance in Regency London.
Scheduled for release July 2013. Both e-book and print.