(Ladies Least Likely, #2)
Publication date: March 5th 2024
Genres: Adult, Historical, Romance

Synopsis:

In 1776 London, orphaned vicar’s daughter Amaranthe Illingworth supports her small household with her skills as a copyist, but her quiet routine is shattered the day three children show up at her door seeking aid from her brother, their tutor. Behind them storms in Malden Grey, would-be barrister and their erstwhile guardian, who accuses Amaranthe of kidnapping the young Duke of Hunsdon and his siblings.

The former duke’s illegitimate son, Malden Grey has learned to live by his wits, and he’s told he’ll advance to the bar if he takes a proper wife. As she helps him restore order at Hunsdon House, Amaranthe seems a likely candidate—if only Mal can unearth the truth behind the rumors that she’s been forging, and selling, priceless medieval manuscripts. Amaranthe, in the meantime, needs to stay on her guard lest the charming Malden Grey steal her heart at the same time she’s hoping to borrow from his library a priceless book that could make her fortune.

But when Mal’s foray into Amaranthe’s past yields a discovery that will change both of their destinies, they’ll have to fight together to clear their names and stake out a future together—if either has a future at all.

Excerpt

She set the portrait gently in its place. Mal battled the impulse to take those cool, capable fingers and press them against his aching head.

“And where is your mother now?” Her steady, fathomless gaze rested on him.

“She died when I was young.” Dear Lord, he was becoming sentimental. He pushed the weakness aside. “You are coming to know a great deal about us, Miss Illingworth, and I know very little about you.”

Her eyes crinkled as she smiled widely, and Mal cast about for breath. “We have not even been properly introduced.”

“Malden Grey of Bristol, aspiring to the bar.” He held out his hand.

“Malden,” she said, and a silken quality in her voice made him shudder, as did the slide of her fingers as she placed them in his.

“You haven’t told me your name.” His voice roughed his chest.

“Miss Amaranthe Illingworth of St. Cleer, Cornwall. My father was very fond of classical antiquity, so he chose a Greek name for me.” She held the volume of housekeeper’s accounts close to her chest, like a shield.

He sat back. She appeared completely unconcerned to learn he was a bastard, the status he wore like a brand on his forehead, marking him as less than, as lacking.

She rose, and he scrambled to his feet. Very neatly she placed her glass on the shelf beneath the decanter. Her eyes traced the figurines above, all of them representing mythological half-women with breasts prominently displayed.

“They’re not mine,” Mal said.

That small, maddening smile quirked her lips again. “No, they are young Hunsdon’s now, I imagine. I’ve seen this and worse among some of the medieval marginalia I’ve copied, Mr. Grey. You wouldn’t believe some of the grotesques those monks could dream up. I suppose it comes from being locked away day after day with no company but other men.”

That was his problem as well, Mal decided. Too much time in the company of other men. That was why she riled his senses so potently.

He moved around the desk toward her as she stepped away. “I can drive you tomorrow. When you make inquiries about hiring servants. What time shall I bring the carriage round?”

She hesitated, and her face went studiously blank. A slither across the back of his neck told him this was the expression she assumed when she was withholding something. He was beginning to recognize it.

“Eyde made up a room for me here,” she said. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. There are dozens of rooms.” Or so he thought. Hunsdon House was not his, as nothing about the Hunsdon estate was to be his—not even the family name—and so he’d never let much of it occupy his attention.

Mal wondered which room Miss Illingworth would select for her own. Did she see her silk-smooth skin as best set off by the draperies in the Blue Room? Would she choose the Oriental patterns of the Jade Room? Or would she, like an empress of old, demand the royal purple? He imagined her nearby in the house going about her nightly routine, taking down her hair, drawing off her prim robe, perhaps splashing water onto her face that would run down that softly stern neck to the collarbones hidden beneath her gown and—

He’d best stop imagining Miss Illingworth at her ablutions. He was about to embarrass himself.

“Till tomorrow then, Miss Illingworth.” Had she said he could call her Amaranthe? He wanted to roll the name over his tongue. It was exotic, yet robust. A name with command and presence, much like the woman.

Good Lord! That brandy had turned his wits. He was behaving like a moonstruck calf. No, worse.

“Till tomorrow,” she said softly, and her gaze held his. The flickering candlelight brought out violet shadows in her eyes, and all the air left Mal’s body. He wanted to be found worthy of that calm, assessing gaze.

There was no way she would ever find him worthy.

The door shut behind her, and Mal smacked a hand to his head to clear it. He’d best bring himself in order. They had business to conduct. Problems to solve.

She had secrets he wanted very much to discover.

He had gotten his first good look at Miss Amaranthe Illingworth. He wanted a second. And a third.

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About the Author

Misty Urban is a medieval scholar, freelance editor, and college professor who likes to write stories about misbehaving women who find adventure and romance. She holds an MFA and Ph.D. from Cornell University and lives in the Midwest in a little town on a big river.

Connect:

https://mistyurban.com/

https://www.instagram.com/authormistyurban/

https://www.facebook.com/authormistyurban/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3169900.Misty_Urban

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(Ladies Least Likely, #1)

Published by: Oliver Heber Books

Publication date: December 5th 2023

Genres: Adult, Historical Romance, Romance

Synopsis:

When the war-scarred Viscount Penrydd washes up in 1799 Newport minus his memory, Gwenllian ap Ewyas decides not to tell him he owns, and threatened to sell, the property she’s made a refuge for her and other lost souls.

Gwen found healing from her haunted past by making St. Sefin’s into a sanctuary for the hurt and abandoned, and she’ll do anything to preserve the place—including lie to the English lord who owns it until she can win him to her cause. But making Penrydd her stableboy is a dangerous game, especially when he’s a target for an outside menace moving into Newport. Even more unsettling for Gwen, under the scars and arrogance is a man she can admire and possibly love. But as shadows from both their pasts appear at St. Sefin’s, Gwen risks losing her livelihood, her home, and her heart when Penrydd learns just how far she’s gone to deceive him.

Excerpt

Chapter 3.

In which Gwen approaches the viscount to offer to buy his property, and he thinks she’s soliciting something else.

“Lord Penrydd?”

Pen’s boots hit the floor as he sat up. Speaking of pleasure. His capricious God had consented to smile on him for once. The most exquisite female-shaped creature he had ever beheld stood at the parlor door.

She wasn’t dressed like a lady of the night. Her petticoat was clean and white, over it a gown of buttermilk muslin trailing vines of red flowers. It was a quaint style, quite outdated, but one that followed a woman’s curves. A delicate lace crossed her bodice, tied at her back. He wanted to unwrap her, like a present.

An absurd cap of lace and silk roses covered curls of a dusty brown, the color of the paths at his favorite hunting property when they had baked in the sunlight on a summer afternoon. Her face was extraordinary. She didn’t have the pasty complexion of a woman who never went about in the sun, rather a healthy glow and the tiniest dusting of freckles along a nose that suggested a personality both strong and pert. Independently the wide thick-lashed eyes, high cheekbones, lush lips, and arrowed jaw were pleasing yet unremarkable, but put together, the effect was mesmerizing.

“Fifty pounds,” Pen blurted.

Her eyes rounded in surprise. They were some shifting, undefined color, the grey-green of the sea on a cloudy morning. Was she worth more? “A night,” he added. He’d pay anything. He wasn’t even going to pretend to negotiate.

His secretary, Ross, raised his thick brows. Pen ignored him, as usual.

“A night?” Her voice rang clear and fine, trained, the voice of a singer. But her tone held dismay. The lace over her bosom fluttered as she put a hand there. Long, delicate fingers, a fine-boned wrist with an elegant turn. He stared at her hands and imagined them trailing over his skin.

His rough, scarred, contemptible skin. “Not enough? Name your price.”

“I hadn’t arrived at a number, actually. I suppose I ought to have asked Mr. Barlow.”

Who was Barlow? Her flesh broker? Her go between? Pen envied the man who had any hold over her. But she had a proud tilt to her head, that of an independent woman who answered to no one. He’d make her forget Barlow. He’d make her forget everything but her name. What was her name?

“In truth, I’m not certain what the going rate for such things is,” she said.

Pen’s head reeled with a grand, desperate notion. She wasn’t a hedge whore or a public ledger, open to all comers. But a lady of easy virtue nonetheless, perhaps a high flyer or a quality courtesan. Pen wiped his sweating palms on his breeches. He couldn’t afford her. Look at her skin; she wasn’t starving or diseased, nor beaten into submission. Her eyes were clear and steady, if her expression was somewhat baffled, and she smelled like spring. A field of bluebells filled his mind, kissed by a warm sun.

Ah, God. For the first time he understood why a man would go to the trouble of keeping a mistress. So he could have sole access whenever he wished and keep her hidden from the outside world. He swallowed. How could he manage to keep her? Most of the letters on Ross’s blasted table were bills and accounts of some sort, reminders of funds his rotter of a brother had died owing.

“I’m certain we can come to an agreement.” Pen’s voice scratched his throat. Where was the boy with the rum? The tremor was starting again, but the need this time was not for alcohol. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted anything that had to do with another person. Wanted closeness. Affection. Approval.

Ah, yes. He’d wanted affection from his mother, approval from his father, company and camaraderie from his brother. And the evil-minded universe had laughed in his face and stretched him out upon the rack. Pen sweated underneath his neckcloth and worked with a finger to loosen it. This woman wouldn’t be withholding, mocking, or cruel. She was warm and soft all over, inside and out.

She blew out a stream of air and Pen stared, arrested by the shape of her anemone-red lips. They would purse in exactly that fashion when he kissed her.

“I don’t suppose you would consider simply giving it to me,” she said. “Out of charity, you know.”

Giving her—oh, he’d any number of notions of what he could give her. Starting with certain attentive parts of his body. Then the rest, all of him, for eternity.

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