Fans of Eloisa James & Julia Quinn

message 1: by Rachel (new)

Sep 10, 2018 07:32PM

Hey sorry i have been swamped today with RL stuff then crappy internet - i have been going through crappy stuff and this book makes me laugh! like actually out loud - i hope you ladies also laugh!

Yes. She had made a horrid mistake. She would just have to escape as quickly as possible. She squared her shoulders and approached the imposing entrance of Hero House. She had barely let the knocker fall when the large oak door swung open, revealing an aged servant who seemed not at all surprised to find a young woman standing outside his master’s home. Stepping aside, he allowed her to enter, closing the door behind her as she took in the warm, inviting entryway to the long-established London home of the Marquesses of Hero. Instinctively, she began to push the hood of her cloak back from her face only to realize that the events to follow would be easier if she were shielded from recognition. Resisting the impulse, she turned to the servant, and said, “Thank you, good sir.” “Indeed, milady.” The butler offered a short, respectful bow and began to shuffle toward the wide staircase leading to the upper floors of the house. “If you will follow me?” Follow you where? Callie recovered quickly from her surprise, “Oh, I do not mean to—” she paused, not sure of the end of the sentence. He stopped at the foot of the staircase. “Certainly not, milady. It is no trouble. I shall simply provide you escort to your destination.” “My—My destination?” Heroine stopped abruptly, her question laced with confusion. The butler cleared his throat. “Above stairs, milady.” “Above stairs.” She was beginning to sound like a ninny even to herself. “That is where his lordship is at the moment.” The butler gave her a curious look, as though questioning her mental faculties, before turning back to the staircase and beginning the climb to the second floor. “His lordship.” Heroine watched the servant mount the stairs as understanding dawned and her eyes went wide as saucers. Good lord. He thought her a lightskirt! The shocking realization was quickly followed by another—the butler thought her Hero’s lightskirt. Which meant that Hero was here. In the house. “I’m not…” her words trailed off. “Of course not, milady.” He spoke the words with perfect decorum, but she had the distinct sense that he had heard the same, meek protest from countless other women, countless times before. Women who had feigned innocence for propriety’s sake. She had to escape. Unless… No. She quashed the little voice. No unless. Her reputation was hanging by a thread. She’d be safer hailing a hackney by herself on the dark London streets than following this ancient butler to Lord knew where. To Hero’s rooms. Heroine nearly choked at the thought. She would never drink sherry again. “Milady?” The word, delivered with all decorum, held an unspoken query. Was Heroine going to follow? This was her chance. Misguided or not, this was what she had hoped for when she’d sneaked from the house and hailed a hack. She’d wanted to see Hero—to prove that she had the courage for adventure. And here she was, her objective squarely within reach. This is your chance to prove yourself more than passive. She swallowed, staring mutely up at the old man. Fine. She would follow him. And she would ask Hero to help get her home. It would be embarrassing, but he would come to her aid. He had to. She was the sister of a peer of the realm, and he was a gentleman. She hoped. Maybe not, though. A thrill coursed through her at the thought. She pushed it aside, giving a silent prayer of thanks that she had thought to change into her most flattering gown before making the trip. Not that Hero would see the lavender silk beneath her plain black traveling cloak—she had absolutely no intention of revealing her identity to the marquess except as a last resort—but knowing that she wore her prettiest dress gave her an extra ounce of confidence as she lifted her skirts and began to climb. As she moved up the staircase, Heroine detected the sound of faraway, muffled music that became louder as the butler led her sedately down a long, dimly lit corridor. He stopped in front of a large mahogany door that did nothing to contain the music that spilled from the room. Heroine couldn’t help the flash of curiosity that, for a brief moment, overpowered her nervousness. The butler rapped twice, and a strong, clear “Enter” sounded above the music. He opened the door, but did not cross the threshold. Instead, he moved aside to let Herione enter alone, which she did, tentatively. The door closed behind her. She was in the lion’s den, wrapped in a cloak of shadow and sound. The large room was barely lit, a hint of light from a few spare candles illuminating the space in a quiet, intimate glow. Even without its enveloping darkness, it was the most masculine room she had ever seen—decorated in rich, dark wood and deep, earthen colors. The walls were covered in a wine-colored silk; the floor boasted an enormous woven carpet that could only have come from the Orient. The furniture was large and imposing—bookshelves lined two walls, each one full to bursting. On the third wall was a large mahogany bed draped in midnight blue fabrics. As her gaze fell to it, her mind flashed to her earlier fantasy of Odysseus and Penelope and a very different but equally alluring bed. Heroine swallowed nervously, averting her gaze from the scandalous furnishing, her eyes alighting on the master of the house, seated on the far end of the room, his back to the door, at a pianoforte. She had never imagined a piano outside of a conservatory or a ballroom—certainly never as an addition to a bedchamber. He had not turned away from the instrument at her intrusion, instead raising a hand to stay any words that might have interrupted his playing. The piece he played was dark and melodic, and Callie was immediately captivated by its blend of talent and emotion. She watched, riveted by his tanned and corded arms, bare to the elbows, where his white-linen shirtsleeves had been haphazardly rolled; by his strong hands dancing deliberately, instinctively across the keys; by the curve of his neck as his head dipped low in concentration. When he finished the piece, the last of the notes lingered in the heavy air as he lifted his head and turned toward the door, revealing long, muscled legs in tight breeches and knee-high riding boots; his shirt, open at the collar, without cravat or waistcoat to hide the sliver of skin there; the rippling muscles of his shoulders as he straightened on the stool. When he noticed her, the only sign of his surprise was a slight narrowing of his gaze, barely perceptible as he searched for her identity in the dim light of the room. She was never more thankful for her hooded cloak than at that moment. He stood calmly and folded his arms. An untrained eye would have thought that his position was one of carelessness, but Heroine’s years of watching rather than participating in London society had given her a keen sense of awareness. He appeared all at once angular…more tense, the muscles in his arms taut with coiled strength. He was not happy to have a visitor. At least, not a female one. She opened her mouth to speak, to apologize for her intrusion, to escape, but before she could say anything, his words cut across the room. “I should have guessed that you wouldn’t accept my ending our acquaintance. Though, I confess I am surprised that you would be so bold as to visit me here.” Heroine’s mouth closed in surprise as he continued, his tone firm, his words cold. “I had not wanted to make this more difficult than it had to be, Nastasia, but I see you will not accept my decision. It is over.” Dear Lord. He thought her a tossed-over paramour! Granted, she wasn’t exactly presenting herself as a gentlewoman, arriving as she had—unbidden—on the doorstep, in the dead of night, but this was really too much! She should correct him. “Nothing to say, Nastasia? That’s rather out of character, is it not?” Then again, remaining silent required far less courage than revealing herself to this imposing man. He gave an irritated sigh, clearly through with the one-sided conversation. “I think I was more than generous with the end of our agreement, Nastasia. You retain the house, the jewels, the clothes—I’ve given you more than enough rein with which to bridle your next patron, have I not?” Heroine gasped, outraged at the way he was so callously and cavalierly ending a romance. Her response garnered a humorless laugh from the marquess. “There is no need to play the shocked miss. We both know that naïveté escaped you long ago.” His tone was cool and emotionless as he dismissed her, “You may find your own way out.” He resumed his seat, turning his back to her and beginning to play once more. Heroine had never thought she would feel for one of the courtesans who lurked on the edges of the ton as mistresses of the aristocracy, but she couldn’t help but take offense on this particular woman’s behalf. And to think, she had thought Hero a pillar among men! She stood, fists clenched in womanly outrage, wondering just what she should do. No…she knew what she should do. She should leave this room immediately and flee this house. She should return to her quiet, calm life and forget her silly list. But that was not what she wanted to do. What she wanted to do was teach this man a lesson. And her anger made her brave enough to stay. He did not look back as he said, “I beg you not to make this situation any more awkward than you have, Nastasia.” “I’m afraid this situation can only become more awkward, my lord.” His head whipped toward her as he shot from his seat. If she were not so irritated, she would have been vastly entertained. “You see, I am not who you quite obviously believe me to be.” She had to give him credit. His surprise was almost immediately replaced by shuttered calm. “Indeed you are not, Miss…” He paused, waiting for her to identify herself. He continued after a long silence, “It appears that you have the advantage of me.” “Indeed, it does seem that way.” Heroine was shocked by her own boldness. “May I assist you in some way?” “I had thought so. However, after witnessing the manner in which you address the women in your life, I find I would rather not join their ranks.” One of his dark eyebrows kicked up at her words. Heroine took that as her cue to escape. Without another word, she turned abruptly and grasped the door handle. She had opened the door not a quarter of an inch when a large, strong hand shot over her shoulder and closed it again. Dear Lord…he was fast. She tugged at the handle with both hands, but her strength was no match for his; that single, strong arm kept the door firmly shut. “Please,” she spoke, her words barely above a whisper, “let me go.” “You speak as though I brought you here, my lady. On the contrary. ’Tis you who entered my domain. Don’t you think you owe me the courtesy of an introduction?” His reply was quiet, spoken just at the edge of her hood, sending a shiver of panic through her. His body was scant inches away from hers—any closer, and they would be touching. They might as well have been for the way the heat of him was overwhelming her senses. Heroine stared at the doorjamb, wondering just how she was going to escape her fate. She had started this evening as Calpurnia. She couldn’t give up now. “We’ve—” She cleared her throat and started again. “We’ve met before, my lord.”

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message 2: by Manda (new)

Sep 10, 2018 07:43PM