Enter to Win a Print Copy of
THE LAST CHANCE CHRISTMAS BALL
THE LAST CHANCE CHRISTMAS BALL
Mary Jo Putney, Jo Beverly, Joanna Bourne,
Patricia Rice, Nicola Cornick, Cara Elliot,
Anne Grace & Susan King
Released Sept 29, 2015
Zebra
Christmas 1815.
Upstairs and downstairs, Holbourne Abbey is abuzz with preparations for a grand ball to celebrate the year’s most festive—and romantic—holiday. For at the top of each guest’s wish list is a last chance to find true love before the New Year…
Upstairs and downstairs, Holbourne Abbey is abuzz with preparations for a grand ball to celebrate the year’s most festive—and romantic—holiday. For at the top of each guest’s wish list is a last chance to find true love before the New Year…
A chance
meeting beneath the mistletoe, a stolen glance across the dance floor—amid the
sumptuous delicacies, glittering decorations, and swell of the orchestra, every
duchess and debutante, lord and lackey has a hopeful heart. There’s the
headstrong heiress who must win back her beloved by midnight—or be wed to
another….the spinster whose fateful choice to relinquish love may hold one more
surprise for her…a widow yearning to glimpse her long-lost love for even one
sweet, fleeting interlude …a charming rake who finds far more than he bargained
for. And many other dazzling, romantic tales in this star-studded collection
that will fill your heart and spice up your holidays…
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From OLD FLAMES DANCE by Cara
Elliott
A man was sitting in a leather
armchair, his long legs propped up on the brass fender surrounding the flames
dancing up from the logs in the marble hearth. His head was bent over the book
in his lap, the planes of his profile sharply defined by red-gold flames, even
though tangled strands of silky black hair had fallen across his cheek.
Lily tried to breathe, but the
hammering of her heart against her ribs seemed to thump all the air from her
lungs.
His face was more austere. Time had
chiseled away the softness of youth. There was a new firmness to his
features—the cant of his eyes, the slant of his cheekbone, the shape of his
nose. . . .
Oh, but the shape of his mouth still
possessed a fullness that belied the serious expression tugging at its corners.
Seeming to sense the scrutiny, he
slowly looked up from the open pages.
The slight movement broke the spell
that held her in thrall. Lifting her skirts, she hurried to catch up with her
escort, the agitated swoosh-swoosh of wool and lace skirling around her legs.
“Your quarters are here, madam.”
Munton opened the paneled portal and stepped aside for her to enter. Her maid
had already lit the oil lamps and stirred the banked fire to a cheery blaze.
“You have only to ring if you require anything.”
“Thank you,” replied Lily, her
breath still feeling a little ragged.
He bowed, and the door closed with a
discreet click.
“I’ve laid out your night rail and
wrapper, Mrs. T.” Her maid, Colleen, an Irish girl from County Kerry who had
been with her for the last five years, came around the large four-poster bed
chafing her arms. “Cor, I had forgotten how cold winter can be here. I never
thought I’d say it, but I almost miss the sweltering heat of Bombay.”
“It will take a little time to
readjust.”
“Aye, lots of things to get used to
again,” agreed Colleen. An even-tempered girl who had proved unflappable
through any adventure, she had become a friend as well as a companion. “The
weather, the peace and quiet, the food—though I won’t miss that hot-as-hellfire
curry.”
Lily smiled and they continued
chatting as her maid helped her to undress and ready herself for retiring. The
supper tray arrived, the hot tea and still-warm meat pie helping to calm her
jumpy stomach. She then dismissed Colleen for the night, wishing to be alone
with her thoughts.
Not that they proved to be very good
company.
Edward. She had thought that
time—how many hours were in a decade?—had rubbed off all the sharp edges of
longing. Her godmother’s invitation to the ball had offered a chance to see him
one last time before retiring to the snug little cottage she had leased on the
coast—and she had told herself it was merely a mixture of curiosity and
nostalgia that had compelled her to accept. A dispassionate glimpse back at her
youth before heading to the future of living out her widowhood in comfortable
peace and quiet.
Liar! In her heart, she should have
known her feelings, however carefully locked away in the darkest depth of her
being, had not withered away for lack of air or light. One glimpse—one fleeting
glance at his face—and love had burst into bloom, its tender vines shooting out
to curl around her consciousness. . . .
“Yes, it was a mistake to come
here,” she whispered.
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Mary Jo Putney, Jo
Beverley, Joanna Bourne, Patricia Rice, Nicola Cornick, Cara Elliott, Anne
Gracie, Susan King are the ladies otherwise known as the Word Wenches. These eight
authors have written a combined 231 novels and 74 novellas. They’ve won awards
such as the RITAS, RT Lifetime Achievement award, RT Living Legend, and RT
Reviewers Choice award. Several of them are regulars on the New York Times and
USA Today bestseller lists.
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