As the most distinguished watchmaker in England, Christian Bainbridge
believes in accurate timepieces, not love. He secretly offered his heart
years ago, and he’s never gotten it back. When Raine Mowbray stumbles
into his life again, Christian realizes the woman he’s worshiped from
afar is still the woman he desires above all others.
Raine Mowbray needs solitude and employment, not love. A housemaid forced
to flee a loathsome earl’s grasp, the last thing she’s seeking
is a man’s amorous attention. When she finds herself unexpectantly
paired with a gorgeous watchmaker in need of an assistant, she’s
unnerved by his wit, kindness—and clandestine devotion to her.
If you like spirited heroines who fight falling in love and charmingly
arrogant heroes who think they know best, then this is the book for you!
Snuggle up with Tempting the Scoundrel, a steamy second chance,
love-at-first-sight Regency Romance!
This is a Downton Abbey-ish novella at 98 pages and 25K words!!
Award-winning author Tracy Sumner’s storytelling career began when she
picked up a historical romance on a college beach trip, and she fondly
blames LaVyrle Spencer for her obsession with the genre. She’s a recipient
of the National Reader’s Choice, and her novels have been translated into
Dutch, German, Portuguese and Spanish. She lived in New York, Paris and
Taipei before finding her way back to the Lowcountry of South
When not writing sizzling love stories about feisty heroines and their
temperamental-but-entirely-lovable heroes, Tracy enjoys reading,
snowboarding, college football (Go Tigers!), yoga, and travel. She loves to
hear from romance readers!
In this passionate, provocative romance, a spirited woman committed to stamping out social injustice finds herself battling a town constable… for her heart.
She is his greatest temptation.
He is her forbidden desire.
A battle of wills leads to love.
Spirited Savannah Connor is passionately committed to stamping out social injustice. Yet, when she arrives in Pilot Isle, North Carolina, ready to take up a new cause, she quickly finds herself on the outs with the town constable.
Zachariah Garrett is the most arrogant, infuriating, maddeningly attractive man she’s had the misfortune to meet. And, suddenly, Savannah is fighting a whole new battle — this one against her own yearning for a man who is impossible to resist.
Ever since his wife’s death two years ago, Zachariah Garrett has dedicated his life to keeping the peace. And, avoiding love. But Savannah Connor isn’t an ordinary woman — and she proves hard to ignore. She’s a beguiling beauty with the power to awaken emotions Zach thought he’d never feel again, and the tenderness to help him forget his fears. And risk his heart once more.
TIDES OF PASSION was originally published by Zebra Books, a Kensington Publishing imprint, and was awarded the Reader’s Choice Best Historical and the Beacon for Best Historical.
Tracy’s storytelling career began when she picked up a copy of LaVyrle Spencer’s Vows on a college beach trip. A journalism degree and a thousand romance novels later, she decided to try her hand at writing a southern version of the perfect love story. With a great deal of luck and more than a bit of perseverance, she sold her first novel to Kensington Publishing.
When not writing sensual stories featuring complex characters and lush settings, Tracy can be found reading romance, snowboarding, watching college football and figuring out how she can get to 100 countries before she kicks (which is a more difficult endeavor than it used to be with her eleven-year-old son in tow). She lives in the deep south, but after spending a few years in NYC, considers herself a New Yorker at heart.
Tracy has been awarded the National Reader’s Choice, the Write Touch and the Beacon – with finalist nominations in the HOLT Medallion, Heart of Romance, Rising Stars and Reader’s Choice. Her books have been translated into German, Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish. She loves hearing from readers about why she tends to pit her hero and heroine against each other and that great novel she simply must order in five seconds on her Kindle.
Drugged and kidnapped, Shera finds herself on a ship to Morocco to serve the Sultan. Abandoned and alone, Shera must find a way to escape and confront the people who betrayed her. She gets help from an unlikely source: the man who kidnapped her. When their partnership turns to love, the two must face constant danger to endure. But will they ever be free?
Other books in the Morocco Series:
Tied To Morocco
Morocco Series, Book Two
Published: April 2019
Lady Catherine was kidnapped and taken to Morocco. There, she fell in love with Tazim. But, just before they were to wed, Tazim disappeared and she was told he was dead. Forced into an unwanted marriage with another, she manages to escape and make her way home to England. But Tazim is not dead. Believing Catherine betrayed him, he has vowed to exact revenge.Can they find each other again? Can their love be rekindled?
Kidnapped and taken to Morocco, Lady Olivia prays for someone to come and save her. Help appears in the form of Tristan, the man she loves. He disguises himself as an English ambassador in order to rescue her, but he is betrayed. Now, she must find a way to help him. Can they escape? And will they ever be free from the clutches of the sultan?
Leslie Hachtel was born in Ohio, raised in New York and has been a gypsy most of her adult life. Her various jobs, including licensed veterinary technician, caterer, horseback riding instructor for the disabled and advertising media buyer have given her a wealth of experiences. However, it has been writing that has consistently been her passion.
She is a bestselling author who has written thirteen romance novels, including ten historicals and three romantic suspense. She also sold an episode of a TV show, and had a screenplay optioned. Leslie lives in Florida with a fabulously supportive engineer husband and her new writing buddy, Annie, a terrier.
In the first in Tracy Sumner’s sizzling League of Lords historical series, mysticism in Victorian England is the setting for a captivating love affair . . .
He’s a viscount with a dark past who yearns for the one woman he can’t have. She’s rebellious, spurned by society and determined to change his mind.
What’s a defiant woman to do when the man she’s meant for doesn’t believe in love?
After three years of waiting for Julian Alexander to realize they are destined to be together, Lady Piper Scott takes matters into her own hands. Because her gift as a healer has never done anything but distance her from the most principled man in England. A meaningless diversion as a medium, all done to gain a certain wandering viscount’s attention, backfires. As most endeavors have for a woman known in the ton as Scandalous Scott.
What’s a reluctant viscount to do when the woman he can’t have becomes the woman he can’t live without?
Julian Alexander, Lord Beauchamp, battled his way from the lowliest slum to assume his title. He carries not only a turbulent past, but a mystical psychic gift that separates him from society. Honorable to his core, he is committed to protecting a community of outcasts with abilities like his own. He has no time, no place, for love. Or repeatedly rescuing the most outrageous, beguiling woman he’s ever known. Even if she needs his protection most—and he desires her above all others.
Seduction, intrigue and desire lead to an explosive passion…
Julian vowed to shield Piper from the deadly foes seeking to possess her powerful gift. Although he needs her help in controlling his own, the mix could be deadly. Soon what was once a simple agreement to work together becomes enchantingly complex as they surrender to a timeless love…
Praise for Tracy Sumner’s novels:
“Delicious and amusing…witty dialogue, sparkling humor and a snappy narrative. A must read!” —The Best Reviews
“Terrific dialogue…and hot loves scenes. If you haven’t read Tracy Sumner before, Tides of Passion is a good place to start.” —All About Romance
“A powerful relationship novel that explores the heartache and triumph of love.” —Romantic Times
“The battle of the sexes heats up the pages of this fun and fresh romance by talented new writer Tracy Sumner.” —New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs
There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music. John Keats
Allowing the lady to lure him into her carriage had been a brilliant idea.
Julian Alexander stared at a spider crack in the ceiling of his Mayfair town home and wondered when he might start to believe it. He could presume encountering a former lover outside Hatchards on an otherwise lonely evening was a fortuitous event if there weren’t the niggling—familiar—pinch of regret the moment his cock settled.
A faint sense of having erred, gone off the path and into a twilight woodland where one could be easily lost.
As lost as he’d felt stepping into her dimly lit carriage.
Julian watched Marianne wrap herself in his silk dressing gown, her chatter lulling him into a state of satiated distraction. Only the first and third word of each sentence filtering through, he found the conversation definitively complete. Earl, garden, tryst, scandal. Titles and the men who held them occupied her undivided interest. Each day spent investigating a riddle that had no solution.
Was not, in fact, worth the attention she devoted to it.
In all fairness, Julian could not judge.
His mystical gift separated him from a normal existence and made the world he’d been born into at times unrecognizable. Out of a sense of duty, he played the part of the gentleman for
the solitary purpose of propping up the viscountcy, adhering to society’s rules while struggling to preserve his secrets and the secrets of those he protected. Of course, he tendered his title when it benefited himself or the League. But a barony would have profited as well and knocked him down a notch, perhaps enough to slip beneath the waves and be carried from view.
He closed his eyes and let the waves crash over him.
Then Marianne mucked it up by kicking the door to the past wide open.
He rose to his elbow, knocking the counterpane aside. Dragging his hand through his hair, he asked, “Repeat that, will you?” Alarm vibrated through his belly, like swimming in the sea and realizing a massive wave crested behind you. No, it couldn’t be. “Come again?”
Marianne’s gaze settled where the sheet hung low on his hips. “So, you were listening.” She reached to touch, a stroke on air. Licked her lips in the event he didn’t register her appreciation. “Jules, with you, I never know.”
He slid high in the bed, suppressing his annoyance. Jules. He’d asked her to refrain from calling him that. Too. Many. Memories. “Marianne, the clairvoyant?”
Her smile grew luminous, her delight underscoring the scant attention he offered. Without trying to be a disdainful cad, it seemed he was precisely that. “Oh, darling, it was the most farcical evening! Ashcroft arranged for a fortune teller to entertain, and you know him. For a duke, he pushes the boundaries of propriety while always staying within the limit.” She leaned in, clutching the lapels of his dressing gown to her bosom. “I heard there was absinthe served to the men. Why, the festivities were enough to make a stuffed bird laugh!”
Julian hummed low in his throat and rose from the bed. He didn’t know but could imagine. Hell’s teeth, he thought and reached for his clothes, which lay in a tidy pile next to the chiffonier. Taken off without haste, neatly folded.
He frowned. How little had he wanted this encounter?
“I didn’t glean any outrageous tidbit about my future. Though I tried.” She lifted a delicate shoulder beneath silk. “More the delight just being there.”
He buttoned his shirt, slipped his braces over his shoulders. “You mentioned the woman had an unusual accent.”
Marianne crossed the room, slippers striking the floor in an eager rhythm. “It was dark, too dark to see anything. Very mysterious. Madame wore a veil, and there was candlelight. The ideal setting. Although Ashcroft seemed oddly anxious the entire evening, adding nothing to our merriment.” At Julian’s impatient look, she rushed on, “Madame’s accent came out on one word. She sounded almost…” She twirled her hand in a languid circle, finger pointed toward the plaster ceiling rose. “Ad-ver-tise-ment. That’s what she called the sheet she handed me. She sounded, can you imagine, American? Would that not be a vulgar surprise?” She laughed it away, swept beneath the Aubusson at her feet. “Although I’m sure I misheard. Doubtless, an upstart trying to hide cockney.”
Julian’s fingers twitched, missing a button on his waistcoat. He moved too forcefully across the room as she took a stumbling step back. “Where is it?” He drew a breath laced with the scent of Marianne’s perfume and the acrid aroma rolling in the open window. Soot, sewage. That damned river. Christ, he hated London. “The advertisement.” He extended his hand, controlling the tremor that wanted to travel from his fingers to his heart.
Could. Not. Be. Piper was tucked away in Gloucestershire. Under armed guard. Protected. Safe. Their enemies had been searching for her since she’d arrived from New York all those years ago. But they wouldn’t look in Gloucestershire. She knew this. He’d cautioned her more times than he could count. Had been advising her for years, it seemed.
Marianne regarded him through eyes the color of fresh cow dung. “Why, darling, I fear I’ve not seen you react…to anything. Appetites fed but the heart untouched.” She waved away her discomfiture and a statement she likely wished she’d kept to herself. Turning in a crimson whirl, she moved to rifle through the reticule sitting atop the chaise lounge, one just the shade of emerald eyes Julian had tried with little success to forget. “Lucky for you, I saved it. As proof, I experienced such an evening. Who would believe otherwise?”
Julian flexed his fingers, preparing for the transmission. His gift didn’t marry well with a lack of sleep. Touching an object and being pulled into the otherworld of someone who had touched it previously was brutal enough. Stepping into that world when exhausted was reckless and allowed the experience to control him.
Maybe it wasn’t Piper, and this endeavor would be nothing more than supernatural experimentation. He’d sent Finn to visit her last month. Or had it been May? A headache moved to the base of his skull. Lifting his hand to his brow, he pressed hard.
Blast it, had they not visited since the spring?
Marianne thrust the advertisement at him, and he hesitated. Taking time to notice she’d only secured an ear bob, and it dangled there without a partner, bouncing as she did. Her lips canted, though he’d bet a half-sovereign the smile would disappear if she fathomed the source of his reluctance. If she had any idea who he truly was and how his gift of sight forever separated them, she would run screaming into the misty night. “If you’re interested, Julian, and I’m shocked you are, Madame DuPre is doing a reading tonight. The address is listed.”
His breath seized. Madame DuPre. The name conjured forgotten summers of youth. Running through fields of grass so tall the blades hit his thigh; swimming in shallow lakes on moonlit nights; climbing trees until he was breathless surveying all that fell below. Laughter and
foolishness—even love by some arcane definition—on a scale he and Piper could no longer afford.
Julian huffed a sigh and grabbed the sheet before he could think better of it. Or stop himself, which he would not, because it appeared Piper had jumped off another goddamn ledge.
And he was her rescuer. Her caretaker.
I’m going to throttle her, was all he managed as he crushed the foolscap in his hand and stepped into the otherworld.
Shadow and candlelight bathed the room. The curious combination of burnt ashes, spice, and lilac. Piper was settled over a desk, her gown as golden as the Kingcup scattered along Harbingdon’s riverbank each spring. Moonlight carved a path along the floor and Julian followed the dazzling footpath of silvery blue. The walls surrounding her were covered in tattered wallpaper, peeling at the ceiling and seams. The furniture was scuffed, the rug threadbare. The dwelling was nothing like Finn’s description of the modest but opulent manor in Gloucestershire.
His heart thumped desperately against his breastbone. She was more vivid than any model he’d ever painted, and he had tried to recreate her, a thousand strokes of brush to canvas.
Her vibrancy eluded him.
Stumbling back, he tried to step out of the trance. It was a problem lately that he had trouble doing so. The otherworld had a voracious claim on him. Through eyes drawn to slits, he observed Marianne’s lips moving, but he was too entrenched in another space and time to respond.
Too entrenched in her.
Independent of his gift, Piper Scott had a stronger hold over him than any woman could ever hope to have.
Muttering a harsh oath, he dropped the advertisement like it burnt his skin and the image of Piper spiraled away, water down a drain. Forcing him from the room with the tattered wallpaper and the girl he’d sworn to protect with his life but never touch again to preserve hers.
The woman for whom he hungered.
Dear God, Piper, what have you done?
He was through the door and into the hallway before another breath had passed, ducking as a vase accompanied Marianne’s shriek of rage.
About the Author
Tracy’s story telling career began when she picked up a copy of LaVyrle Spencer’s Vows on a college beach trip. A couple of degrees (BA, Journalism-MA, Media Arts) and a thousand romance novels later, she decided to try her hand at writing a southern version of the perfect love story. With a great deal of luck and more than a bit of perseverance, she sold her first novel to Kensington Publishing.
Tracy has been awarded the National Reader’s Choice, HOLT Medallion, the Write Touch and the Beacon – with finalist nominations in the HOLT Medallion, Heart of Romance, Rising Stars and Reader’s Choice. Her books have been translated into German, Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish.
She lives in the south, but after spending a few years in NYC, considers herself a New Yorker at heart. She loves hearing from readers about why she tends to pit her hero and heroine against each other or that great novel she simply must read.
Lady Mary Mowbrah, daughter of a duke, fell in love with a man beneath her station. When he leaves for war, determined to earn her hand as a hero, she promises to wait for him, never dreaming the man who returns will be different from the man who left.
Colonel Duncan Starrett returns from war with honors, accolades, and a debilitating injury. As much as he still loves Lady Mary, he fears a future between them is now impossible.
This is the love story of Mary and Duncan as they forge a future from the shadows of the past.
Stretching out his legs, Duncan Starrett lay across the picnic blanket, his forearm sinking into the dewy grass beneath. His eyes met those of his love’s—wide, walnut brown, framed with black lashes against alabaster skin. For nearly a year he had loved her, yet one look still made his pulse race.
“I want to come with you,” she said, brushing soft fingers against his cheek.
“I’ll return before you notice I’ve gone; a decorated hero worthy of your hand.”
She pleaded with her eyes.
“The battlefield is no place for you, Mary. How could I fight for Crown and country when worrying about your safety? Not that your family would ever consent for you to follow the drum.”
“Oh, Duncan, let’s elope! It would be so romantic.” Wistful, Lady Mary clasped her hands, looked to the heavens, and fell back against the blanket with a sigh of youthful innocence.
Tree branches danced shadows on her features. His heartbeat quickened as he leaned over her, tracing her lips with his fingertips. Leaving her behind would be the most difficult task of his life. His Mary. His love.
“Dream of my return,” he said. “We’ll attend the best parties, dance until our feet blister, and ride into the sunset on our fastest horses. Once I return, I’ll ask permission for your hand.”
She combed her fingers through his hair, sending shivers from scalp to toes. Pulling him to her, she kissed him, a gentle pout of moist lips pursed to his.
“We’ve lingered too long,” he murmured, lost in the depths of her eyes. “Go home before they notice your absence.”
As an ensign in the Light Dragoons, Duncan saw more ballrooms than battlefields, easy to do when there were no battles. He craved the clash of swords and thunder of guns. After a childhood filled with his father’s romantic war stories, Duncan longed to experience the scenes for himself: hiking impossible hills, meeting the enemy with sword drawn, wading through rivers, sleeping beneath the stars. In the quiet of the night, he brandished his sabre at the darkness, practicing his moves, striking a dashing pose.
Lieutenant Starrett had yet to see war. Was this his route to heroism? Was he fated to return home an officer who had never drawn his sword?
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years.
The French were at war with themselves, launching a revolution against their monarchy. The British Army remained idle, waiting. Waiting for what? An opportune moment to fight? Duncan wanted to fight now. For too long he had waited for action. He recalled the promises made when his father purchased his first commission—the Crown would take advantage of France’s weakness. When was this grand takeover? His blade was sharp, his gun was clean, and he was ready.
Captain Starrett ached with desperation to prove himself.
And then, he found war. Or rather, war found him.
The daring! The glory! The action exhilarated him.
He roared into battle, a fierce foe, heart in his throat, body tingling with excitement tinged with fear. He fought for his life, for his country, for his father, for Mary. In this moment, he was man—raw power, passionate and invigorated, victory red.
He thought himself debonair, a real hero.
With the elation of battle pulsing through his veins, he wrote to Mary. He could not very well return after wielding his sword only once. He wanted more—thirsted, hungered for more. What was another couple of years after the three he spent waiting? It was not as though he would never return.
Major Starrett dabbed the tender skin of his stomach with a wet cloth. The blade had come too close for comfort. Only now did he realize how close, as it had sliced through his waistcoat and grazed his skin. The more superficial, the more troubling. He winced with each stroke of the cloth.
However safe at camp he was, the apprehension of more bloodshed buzzed in his ears. The morning would see the fighting renewed. His limbs were clammy from the cold sweat all too familiar both post- and pre-battle. Tonight, he would dream of holding Mary, inhaling the aroma of her lavender-scented hair, savoring the feel of her velvet skin.
He trudged with throbbing feet, overwrought muscles, and pounding head, disillusioned by war. Lost were his dreams in a sea of red, bathed in the glow of regimental coats mingled with blood. This was not heroic. This was not glamorous. This was a horror show of vacant stares and flashing steel. He was Charon, ferrying sons from their mothers and husbands from their wives. No longer did he crave the battlefield with its death and guilt.
And yet, he still craved the valor, the camaraderie, the rhythm of the drums, the scent of victory, the sounds of gallantry.
Atop his stallion Caesar, Lieutenant Colonel Starrett of the Light Dragoons led his men into battle. British, Dutch, and Austrian troops launched against the French, a proper invasion of a weakened and ruler-less country. With sabre at the ready, he leaned forward and squeezed his calves to the hot horseflesh, signaling his mount to charge. The formation was tight, mere inches between cavalry riders. A roar of power erupted as they broke through infantry lines, slashing an opening for the foot regiments.
There was no greater feeling than a horse beneath him, an inseverable bond between beast and man. Only his legs and weight signaled his horse’s movements, for his hands wielded weapons of war rather than reins. His horse was an extension of himself.
Boxtel was a fierce and bloody battle, but Duncan was untouchable atop his stallion.
Colonel Starrett shivered. More men had died from exposure than battle; a harsher winter they had not seen. With white clouds for breath, they prepared to defend the frozen waters of the Lower Rhine. The horses pawed the iced earth, ready. He stroked Caesar’s neck, his hand trembling.
The enemy lined the opposite bank, muskets aimed, bayonets fixed.
Ignoring the smell of fear in the air, Duncan signaled his regiment with his sabre.
Time slowed. Seconds stretched to infinity between spur and charge. Duncan’s attention funneled. He knew only the hoofbeats of his horse, the song of bullets, and his steady breath.
The cavalry hoofed alongside their field commander, an impenetrable wall of horse muscle and blades.
Convinced the Holy Spirit was on their side, the enemy marched across the frozen water.
Steel clanged and men cried as the dragoons broke the line at the riverbank.
A moment of victory before it all went wrong.
Another line crossed the river, muskets aimed, bayonets fixed. Another line behind them. And another. His regiment, decimated by the cold, chattered their teeth along the river’s edge as they watched the endless onslaught of Frenchmen.
Retreat! The cry echoed through the ranks, the survivors running or fighting their way back to safety.
Duncan, one hand wielding his sabre, the other holstering his Elliot pattern pistol, nudged Caesar to about-face. Without further encouragement, the horse turned and retreated, the whole of the allied troops doing likewise.
His one thought: get the men to safety.
A slap to his lower back broke his focus. He looked to either side, expecting to see one of his men. Leaning forward to quicken the pace away from the river, he felt a tightening pressure along his spine, warming as it twisted, a fire poker sinking into his flesh then tugging.
The scorch spread, hot and wet.
As he straightened, slowing his mount, he felt winded, the air knocked out of his lungs. He panicked, struggling to breathe.
Before him, arm outstretched, hovered an ethereal Mary. His Mary. His ladylove. Even as he reached out to her, his head swam in a dizzying vortex. Their fingers touched as he slumped against Caesar’s neck.
About the Author
Celebrated for her complex characters, realistic conflicts, and sensual love scenes, Paullett Golden puts a spin on historical romance. Her novels, set primarily in Georgian and Regency England with some dabbling in Ireland, Scotland, and France, challenge the norm by involving characters who are loved for their flaws, imperfections, and idiosyncrasies. Her stories show love overcoming adversity. Whatever our self-doubts, love will out.