Ebook - novel
TBR reviewer: Shyla
But there is a far greater danger. A deadly assassin has come to the Swafford estate, and The Beast's fear of falling in love might just be his downfall. Maddy, the woman he won't trust, is the one innocent soul who can save his life--and his heart.
I read the plan and knew instantly it was going to fail. But Maddie’s brain works differently than mine. Because the next thing I know she’s in the crowded streets of London seeking the Earl. With no protection and no clue what the man looks like she’s robbed, frustrated and near trampled. When she runs into the Earl unknowingly. I was literally leaned forward over my computer waiting for the bomb of realization to drop.
He saves Maddie from being trampled in the streets he thinks she’s a strumpet who stirs his passion. The dark haired beauty tempts him to take what he wants, but the “gentleman” that’s buried deep within him prevails. Our hero is sexy, gruff, and so misunderstood. The Earl has been dealt a raw hand in life.
The mistaken identity continues as the passion laced, humors filled chain of events occurs. A choir of angels sung halleluiah, and I pumped my fist in triumph. Their true identities must be revealed soon! What would the Earl do then?
The stubborn couple eventually find their way together to deliver a well earned, and long anticipated HEA. The story may be placed in the 1800s, but the sex didn’t lack heat! Fans self. There was an extra sense of naughtiness that came with the yanking up of gowns and breaking of society rules.
I really ran the gamut of emotions with this story. I was saddened by the Earl’s past. Amused by Maddie and irritated by their stubbornness. Ms. Fresina did such a fabulous job crafting the characters and setting up the plot I had no choice, but to be invested.
I highly recommend this story to romance fans! If you haven’t given historical romance a try, this is the perfect starter!
She looked up, surly, frustrated, not in the least thankful. Her eyes were hot and blue as an unspoiled August sky, her lips still complaining. The gown, about which she expressed such pride, stretched beyond capacity by a bountiful bosom, expanded further with each indignant breath.
Incredibly, it seemed she would refuse the assistance he deigned to offer, so before she crawled away, he leaned down, swept his hands under her arms and scooped her upright in one swift motion. No one interfered as he apprehended her, no one claimed ownership of the mouthy, voluptuous wench. A lofty, cumbersome fellow, with shoulders that did credit to any Tudor doorframe worth its wood grain, his sheer size warned off potential rivals.
It did not, however, cause her any hesitation.
“God’s Teeth! Who gave you the right to manhandle me? Poxy, presumptuous…!” She shot him full of arrows in the form of fulsome oaths one might expect from the mouth of a drunken sailor.
Impervious to insult, accustomed to it, he held her a good distance off the ground, wanting a closer look at this anomaly, wondering at her untended state. Why did no man step forward to keep her in order?
Suddenly ceasing her complaints, she took advantage of his considerable height, using his frame like a mounting block to press herself higher still, consequently kneeing him in the belly. Struggling to maintain his footing, Griff’s protests met the warm, sweet-scented curves of her plump bosom and were immediately muffled, both in execution and in thought. As for the folk around them, they ignored this unseemly behavior. Simply because he now held her in his arms, they assumed she was his charge, therefore his to reprimand. Burdened with the sudden responsibility, Griff wasn’t sure what to do with her. He’d never known anything quite like this, but his mind was open and curious when it came to new discoveries in flora and fauna. At least, this was the excuse he gave for his inertia.
Now, with a good view of the approaching procession, the resourceful wench writhed and wriggled, holding on by his ears. Alternately, his nose. “I seek the Earl of Swafford. Do you see him?”
Startled out of his drowsy thoughts, he almost dropped her. He felt the excitement trembling through her, could even hear her heartbeat leaping like a spring coney as she draped herself around his shoulders. Aware he should be enraged by her behavior, instead he struggled for several breaths, fighting the rare urge to laugh.
Finally he managed a hoarse, “Yes there he is – the Earl of Swafford. Did you not see?”
“The ancient fellow with the ear trumpet,” he grunted, shifting his shoulder under her weight. “There, with the hump and the limp. And the magnificent wart. Ah, he dropped his wooden teeth and it seems a dog ran off with them, poor, bent old wretch. You missed him. What a pity!”
With a frustrated gasp, she fought her way back down the length of his body, until he felt considerably molested, slightly breathless, and perversely intrigued.