My very good friend Jackie Barbosa has a new book out today! A Matter of Indiscretion is the third book in her super, sexy historical Lord of Lancashire series. If you’re looking for a great story, fantastic writing and ROMANCE, you’ll want to check out Jackie’s new book (or any of her previous books).
Today, she’s giving away a digital copy and all you have to do to enter to win is comment on this post.
Once the serving woman departed, Sabine finally removed her bonnet with a sigh of relief, and the two of them sat down to eat. The food could not hold a tithe to Madame Charney’s cooking—oh, how Sabine was going to miss her!—but it was not terrible, either, and the wine was actually quite good. So good, in fact, that Sabine drank rather more than she should have and was a little tipsy by the end of the meal. Perhaps that was why the next words fell out of her mouth. “What would we be doing now if we were really married?”
Monsieur Pearce reached across the table and set his palm on her right shoulder. At first, she didn’t understand the meaning of the gesture, but then he pushed her gently back to the left, and she realized she had been listing out of the chair. Perhaps she was a little drunker than she thought.
His brown eyes sparkled in the low light, his expression wistful. He moved his hand to cup her cheek and brushed his thumb across her lips, sending tingles of anticipation along her nerve endings. This was what she had been desperately waiting for, longing for. “If we were married,” he said, his hand dropping from her cheek, “I would do the very same thing I am going to do now. You are foxed, Sabine Rousseau, and so tired you can barely keep from slipping out of your chair. Even if you were my wife, I would be making sure you got into bed and went to sleep. Whatever it is you think you want now, you might regret it in the morning, and I will not take advantage of you—or any woman—when you are vulnerable.”
“I am not—” she began. There he went again, assuming he knew what she wanted better than she did! But when she tried to stand up, thinking to close the space between them and insist that she knew very well what she was doing, her head spun, and she wobbled precariously.
Very well then; perhaps in this one instance, he was right. She would not regret touching him or letting him touch her, but she would regret not being fully present for the moment, for every sensation, every emotion.
She thudded back into the chair and winced because her bottom was still sore from the endless hours in the carriage. “Fine. You are right. I am not good for anything but sleeping right now.”
“I will go downstairs while you get ready for bed. That is, if you think you can manage on your own.”
The longer she examined her body’s signals, the more unsure she was that she could manage on her own, but she was also not going to put either herself or him through the agony of his helping her to undress and don her night rail. That would be like unveiling a banquet in front of a starving man and then denying him permission to eat. For both of them. “Yes, I can manage,” she said with more conviction than she felt.
With a nod, he stood. As he turned to walk toward the door, she caught sight of the unmistakable bulge in the front of his well-fitted breeches, and all the yearning she had managed to tamp down swelled up inside her like a storm cloud, ready to burst into a torrent. But before anything could come of her loss of control, he was out the door and closing it gently behind him.
She squeezed her thighs together in an effort to lock down the ache that gathered between them and swore under her breath in an entirely filthy and unladylike manner.
This was only the first night. The fall was inevitable. Resistance was futile.