A Marquess for Christmas by 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?
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.
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.
http://www.facebook.com/viviennewestlakeromance
Up for grabs is an ecopy of Lady Northam’s Wicked Surrender! Follow GFC and Leave a comment! Easy peasy :) Ends Dec 31st!
Giveaway:
Up for grabs is an ecopy of Lady Northam’s Wicked Surrender! Follow GFC and Leave a comment! Easy peasy :) Ends Dec 31st!
Thank you for hosting A Marquess for Christmas today! Happy Holidays!
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