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is giving away a $10 Amazon Gift Certificate to a randomly drawn
winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Please use the RaffleCopter
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About
the Book
Two
years ago, she missed their secret assignation and disappeared
without a trace. Now the divine "Miss Hope" is in Felix
Durham’s bed - a 'surprise cheering-up gift' sourced by his friends
from London's most exclusive brothel. Felix is in heaven - and he
wants to stay there.
So
does Hope, but she can’t.
Hope
Merriweather lives by a code of honour – even if she’s a
prostitute.
Having
sold her soul, she’s prepared to sacrifice everything else to
protect what she believes in.
Even
if honour – in her eyes – comes at the cost of thieving and
breaking hearts. Including her own.
Available
for preorder here:
Excerpt: Chapter
One
Wilfred
Hunt.
If
there was a name to tip Hope into the abyss of despair she was
hearing it spill from Madame Chambon’s lips now as the older woman
directed Hope to take a seat in the reception room, presumably so
Madame could loom oppressively over her.
With
her hands on her ample, expensively padded hips, Hope’s
benefactress—procuress, employer and gaoler were other
monikers—sent Hope a beetling look that needed no interpreting:
Regardless of Hope’s true feelings, Hope must project the required
show of warmth and delight at being the chosen one.
Madame
patted the side of her faux curls. Years of hot irons had reduced her
hair to the texture of wool but her crowning glory these days was
supplemented by the lustrous locks of those girls who dared cross her
– before they were thrown back into the street from where most had
come.
Nevertheless,
Hope had to make her resistance clear. Surely Madame who knew her
history would understand her loathing for this man, above all others.
“I shan’t do it,” she whispered. There was little evidence of
the willful child and wild adolescent who’d been the despair of her
family. “I won’t—”
Outside,
the noise of the traffic rumbling over the cobbles and the shrill
calls of competing vendors settled upon the tense silence. Madame
Chambon’s other girls, ranged around the sumptuously appointed room
on red velvet upholstered banquettes, watched the exchange with
prurient fascination. Hope knew it had been a calculated ploy of
Madame’s to conduct her interview in public so that Hope would
serve as an example to them.
No
one crossed Madame Chambon.
The
shrill cry of a fishmonger caused Madame to look pointedly out of the
window. With something between a smile and a sneer, she smoothed a
Marcel wave. “Is that where you plan to return, Hope? The gutter?”
Her nose twitched and in the sunlight that filtered into the room,
the grooves chiselled between mouth and chin were thrown into harsh
relief, highlighted rather than hidden by the thick powder she used
to conceal her age.
Madame
Chambon’s comfort, now and into retirement, depended on obedient
girls. Hope knew that as well as anyone. She’d had to bury her
rebellious streak just to ensure food in her belly.
The
Frenchwoman raised a chiselled brow and began to pace slowly in front
of her girls. A painter with an eye for beauty would have been
ecstatic at capturing such a spectacle on canvas. The discerning
young man about town who visited 56 Albemarle Street was frequently
rendered ecstatic by the range of delights Madame Chambon's
girls offered in addition to the visual.
“You
forget yourself, Hope. I put a roof over your head and deck you out
as handsomely as Mr Charles Worth ever did for his most discerning
customer.” There was acid in Madame Chambon’s tone. “But for
me, you'd be starving and glad of the pennies you could trade for a
grubby stand-up encounter in a dark alley.” Madame Chambon thrust
out her bosom and breathed through her nose, her response a
calculated warning to the other girls arranged in various languid
poses about the ornately decorated reception room that intransigence
would not be tolerated.
“Mr
Hunt has requested you.” She paused and when Hope remained silent,
though her stance and expression left no one in any doubt as to her
horror regarding this enforced assignation, went on. “Remember what
I told you—what I tell all my girls when they first come here? The
past must be forgotten the moment you step over my threshold. You are
reborn, remodelled, refashioned into the most exquisite delectation
of womanhood. A marquess, a prince, is well recompensed for the tidy
sum he hands over in order to enjoy your sparkling wit, to converse
with you in French, or if he chooses, on philosophy…to enjoy your
charms…and,” she added significantly, “your gracious
hospitality and tender ministrations to his needs. That is our
agreement and you are no different. If Mr Hunt wishes you, Hope, to
attend him at his residence then you will go.”
Faith,
one of the kinder girls, patted Hope’s arm in silent solidarity.
Hope didn’t expect any of them to speak up in her defence. Not when
they all relied on Madame Chambon as much as she did to provide them
with the necessities of life. Anything more than that was part of a
strict contract that indentured a girl for life unless she was able
to secure a generous benefactor to settle Madame's severance bill.
The fine clothes were part of the charade, necessary to entice a more
elite clientele. Hope’s exquisite wardrobe did not belong to her
though she'd have forsaken all the dupion silk and Spitalfields lace
for the freedom of the gutter and to be mistress of her own destiny –
and her body - if she could only be sure of a plate of gravy and
potatoes every second day.
Closing
her eyes, she hung her head, the carefully coiffed curls that fell
forwards brushing against her tear-streaked cheeks. It was as well
that they not be in evidence. Tears, weakness, vulnerability were
like a red rag to a bull where Madame Chambon was concerned.
“How
long…do I have to prepare myself?” She was not so stupid she
couldn’t admit defeat when there was no alternative. Obduracy was
beaten out of one, but tears ensured a girl got the very worst next
assignment. Their clients weren’t all marquesses and princes,
though they did require a very fat pocket book.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
Hope repeated it in a leaden tone, and stared at her hands, clasped
in her lap; white-knuckled. As white as the rabbit-fur that edged her
fashionable black-and-white striped satin cuirass. Hope had the tall,
slim figure suited to the scandalously tight tie-back skirts that
were all the rage, the back flowing into a train adorned with
elaborate swags and trimmed with bows. She'd turned heads the length
of Oxford Street as she’d promenaded along the pavement following a
walk through Hyde Park earlier that afternoon. In fact, for the first
time in two years, she’d almost felt happy as she’d pretended a
sense of freedom in the afternoon sun, blocking her mind to the
prison to which she was returning.
She
drew in her breath and forced herself to be brave, knowing the
punishment she’d invite for daring to speak her mind. “Please
tell Mr Hunt I will see him again under sufferance.”
Madame
Chambon’s voice was surprisingly caramel. “Well then, now that
you have made your objection clear, Hope, you will be pleased to hear
that Mr Hunt’s desires are not only motivated by fond memories of
your no-doubt mutually satisfying congress. I believe he wishes to
acquaint you with news of your family.”
Hope
hid her shock. “I have no family.” With care, she modified her
tone so it was as leaden as before though emotion roiled close to the
surface.
“Not
even a sister?”
Hope
raised her chin. Here was the chink and Madame knew it. The woman did
her research.
Aware
that the other girls who surrounded her were tense with anticipation,
Hope struggled not to respond. Camaraderie existed at surface level
but one never knew when it might profit one to have the dirt on a
fellow prostitute. It was, clearly, another reason Madame Chambon had
chosen to make this conversation public.
“Mr
Hunt will see you at nine tomorrow evening,” said the so-called
Frenchwoman who, it was whispered, was from the gutters of Lambeth,
not Paris. “At his apartments in Duke Street. Now go and prepare
yourself for Lord Farrow. Married to a monolith like the venerable
Lady Farrow, he likes his girls vivacious and free-spirited. There’ll
be less coin in your pocket if you sully the transaction with that
long face, Hope.”
About
the Author
Beverley Oakley was seventeen when she bundled up her first 500+ page romance and sent it to a publisher. Unfortunately drowning her heroine on the last page was apparently not in line with the expectations of romance readers so Beverley became a journalist.
Twenty-six
years later Beverley was delighted to receive her first publishing
contract from Robert Hale (UK) for a romance in which she ensured her
heroine was saved from drowning in the icy North Sea.
Since
2009 Beverley has written more than thirteen historical romances,
mostly set in England during the early nineteenth century. Mystery,
intrigue and adventure spill from their pages and if she can pull off
a thrilling race to save someone’s honour – or a worthy damsel
from the noose – it’s time to celebrate with a good single malt
Scotch.
Beverley
lives with her husband, two daughters and a Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy
the size of a pony opposite a picturesque nineteenth century lunatic
asylum. She also writes Africa-set adventure-filled romances tarring
handsome bush pilot heroes, and historical romances with less steam
and more sexual tension, as Beverley Eikli.
You
can get in contact with Beverley at:
1 comment:
Welcome back to my blog, Beverley!
This sounds great. Your excerpt really captures Hope's personality.
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