by Sandra Cox
Blurb:
When Captain Richard Greyston encounters three figures in a graveyard, he takes them for a spectral visitation until he realizes it is two young ladies—in their nightgowns, no less—and their spinsterish companion. A spinster with slender limbs and an enchantingly velvety voice.
Pembra doesn’t care a whit for the captain’s opinion of her, even after circumstances force them into a sham betrothal. But when a gypsy warns her that his life hangs in the balance, she begins to realize that her heart is not so uninvolved as she might like to pretend.
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Excerpt:
“Where’s
everyone going?” she muttered. Her
curiosity aroused, Pembra slipped out the door behind her sisters, keeping the
spectral white nightgowns in sight as she stayed in the shadows. Her heart gave
a hard ka-thump at the nearby screech of an owl. Ignoring it, she kept
going.
What are they up to? Pembra watched Sabrina follow Emma, who followed Betsy.
The maid turned off the
path into the small graveyard located behind the rectory. She forgot to watch Betsy
as she stared in astonishment at Emma sinking behind a large tombstone, like a
specter sinking into the grave, while Sabrina crept up behind her.
Pembra tiptoed closer
until she heard subdued voices. She braced her hands against the rough bark of
an oak. Hidden, she leaned forward to hear.
“Emma what are you doing here?” Sabrina
demanded.
Emma clamped a hand over
her own mouth, muffling her shriek. “What are you doing here?” she hissed back.
“Following you.”
“Gosh, you scared me.”
Emma pulled Sabrina down beside her.
“At the risk of being
repetitive, what are you doing here?”
“Following Betsy. You’ll
never believe it, but she’s out there with Adolphus Webster.”
“The rector’s son?” Sabrina gasped in shock.
“Surely you’re mistaken. That platter-faced prig wouldn’t have the nerve to
meet anyone.”
“Oh, no? Well just take a look at that.
Meeting is hardly the word for what’s going on.” Emma giggled.
“Oh my.” Sabrina clapped
her hand over Emma’s eyes while peeking over the top of the tombstone.
“Hey, move your hand.”
Emma wiggled trying to dislodge her disobliging sister’s fingers.
“You are much too young
to witness such disreputable behavior,” her sibling scolded.
“Yes, and you are so
much more worldly,” Emma grumbled, as she pried away Sabrina’s fingers.
“Well, I’m worldly enough to know if Pembra
finds out about this, its curtains for Betsy,” Sabrina replied, indignant.
The girls—so awake to
the carnal pursuits under the maple tree—were paying not the least
attention to their immediate surroundings.
Pembra stepped out from
her hiding place. “If Pembra finds out about what?”
“Eeekk.” Both girls
screeched and jumped up in fright.
~*~
It was unfortunate
indeed that Captain the Honorable Richard Greyston, late of the Household
Brigade, grandson and only heir of the fifth Earl of Meade, had taken a
wrong turn and was cantering by on his temperamental stallion, when the girls
rose shrieking from behind the tombstone.
“Bloody hell,” floated on the clear night air
as Greyston fought to get his mount under control, not quite believing what he
was seeing as three ghostly apparitions stared at him from behind an ancient
funerary marker.
When his mount Doondiah
was quieted down, Greyston unobtrusively drew a pistol from an inside pocket of
his great coat. Nudging the stallion
with his knees, he approached cautiously. Though, damned if he knew what good a
pistol would be against a ghost, much less three.
Greyston gave a snort of
disgust as he drew nearer and saw that his ghostly apparitions were only girls,
at least the two clutching each other were. The third was definitely an old
maid wearing a ridiculous mobcap, pulled down nearly to her thick spectacles,
and a night rail that had enough material in it to serve as an army tent.
“You damn fool,” he told his horse succinctly.
“That will be enough of
that language in front of innocent young females, sir,” the old maid snapped,
stepping forward.
Spoken like a true
spinster. He sighed inwardly. But
ye gods, the voice. Velvety as night. Low and smoky as sin. A nightingale
sound that conjured up forbidden delights. If his mistress had a voice like
that he’d never leave her side. A lot could be forgiven resonance like that
even if it came from a dried up old spinster.
He moderated his cutting
rejoinder to a mild, “Madam, what are you doing out here?”
~ * ~
Bio:
Multi-published author Sandra Cox writes Crossover YA, YA Fantasy, Paranormal
Romance, Time Travel Romance and Metaphysical Nonfiction. She lives in sunny
North Carolina with her husband, a brood of critters and an occasional foster
cat. Although shopping is high on the list, her greatest pleasure is sitting on
her porch, listening to the birds, sipping coffee and enjoying a good book.
She's a vegetarian and has a yellow belt in Muay Thai.
Links:
Website: http://www.sandracox.blogspot.com
Website: http://www.sandracox.blogspot.com
Twitter:
http://www.twitter.com/Sandra_Cox
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