Anthologye includes:

Bad, Bad Girlfriend by Delilah Devlin
Book Four in the Red Stilettos series.

Expect magic when one determined woman dons a legendary pair of red stilettos and bares body and heart to get her man’s attention…

Jolene’s a big, beautiful woman with an even bigger heart. But she’s become her police officer boyfriend’s favorite doormat and that’s so not working for her. It’s time for a little conversation, time to tell Mr. Happy Pants to “pee or get off the pot”.

Gabriel has seen what his profession does to marriages. He’s not willing to risk that kind of heartbreak. Besides, he likes what he has with Jolene. The woman is sex personified. So when Jolie tells him she won’t see him anymore if he’s not willing to commit, he’s shocked and angry.

With a girlfriend’s encouragement and the added confidence a certain pair of red stilettos gives her, Jolene arranges a special show at a strip club to prove to Gabe once and for all that she’s more woman than any man can handle, and if he doesn’t want the job, then she’ll find another lover who does.

By Delilah Devlin

· Ellora’s Cave
· September 2010
· ISBN: 9781419961465

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Leave a comment for your chance to win a copy of this book. The winner will be announced here on the blog tomorrow and must contact us to claim their prize. Print books will be shipped with Amazon Prime to United States addresses only. eBooks can be sent to everyone.

Read an excerpt after the break!

Jolie’s apartment door swung open and Gabe’s gaze slid down her body in a slow, hungry crawl. She wore a silky robe in a bronzy orange, which hugged her curves like his hands were itching to do.

However, her hand was still on the knob, and she hadn’t backed up to let him in.

He leaned against the doorframe. “Am I too late?”

“Are you too late?” she said slowly.

Jolie’s tone was always like warm honey when she expected sex—soft and oozing down his spine—but right now, a sarcastic edge tightened her voice. And he didn’t like the militant gleam in her dark chocolate eyes.

What had put her into a bad mood? Could she be mad at him? He hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. “If this is a bad time…”

Her soft jaw tightened, but she took a step back and waved him inside.

He breathed a sigh of relief and stepped across the threshold, his hands going to the buttons at the front of his dark uniform shirt as soon as the door closed behind him.

A soft huff of breath halted him, and he looked up to find a scowl sinking a line between her dark brows. “What?”

She slowly shook her head. For a fleeting moment, her eyes filled but she blinked away the moisture. “Nothing.”

“I’m sorry. Should I step out the door and come back in? Something’s bothering you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you think you need to step outside while I get over it?”

“Yeah…”

Her scowl deepened.

“What?”

Her shoulders slumped and she shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” She turned on her heel and headed to the bedroom.

For the second time in five minutes, he sighed his relief. He’d thought, for just a moment there, that she would ask him to leave. That had never happened.

But then, she’d been acting a little funny lately. Quiet and brooding. With another woman he might have thought it was just her time of month, but Jolie wasn’t moody. One of the many things he appreciated about her.

As he followed her down the hallway while she flicked off lights heading to the bedroom, he mulled it over and thought he might have found the answer.

She’d finally decided dating a cop was too harrowing.

After his partner had gotten shot last summer, she’d been a gem, bringing food to the hospital for the men who waited in the halls, calling the wives, babysitting their kids while they took turns waiting with Lexie, Tyler’s girl.

Now that Tyler was back at work and everything had returned to normal, she’d had time to think about what happened. She couldn’t handle it.

Gabe tamped down the searing disappointment. He’d miss her.

He’d always known this day would come. Deep inside, he’d held part of himself back from her because he knew better than anyone that living with a cop was hard. Too stressful for most marriages to survive.

His own mother had stuck it out, soldiering on as friends were lost along the way, until she’d crumpled on the porch when the chief of police and chaplain climbed the steps to deliver the terrible news. From that moment, she’d never pulled herself away from the dark place she’d entered.

Jolie was smart. She’d gotten a taste and decided to protect herself from a grim future.

Still, he was here. Maybe for the last time. He’d make it special, let her know he held no grudges. He’d tell her to move on and not feel guilty that she wasn’t strong enough for the life.

He’d be gentle. And if his chest felt a little tight, well, he’d get over it. This was how it had to end. He stepped into her bedroom.

I did something last weekend that I should not have done — I broke open the DVD set of A HISTORY OF SCOTLAND — a series by BBC that’s hosted by Neil Oliver. I’d actually seen part of it during my trip last year (OHMIGOSH it was a YEAR ago this week!) and couldn’t wait to see the whole thing. When it went on pre-sale, I ordered it. I’ve been busy working on revisions, so when it arrived, I dared not open it or I’d be lost.

I opened it this morning.

I am lost….in love all over again with Scotland.

Try as he might to explain away the mythology that permeates much of Scotland’s history and reputation, it did nothing but make me yearn to get back there as soon as possible. The scenery in the series is breathtaking on my HD monitor — the mountains and valleys, rivers, and ruins are all there in true color. I couldn’t breathe when Dunottar was shown from the air and from just off the coast of it.

I was there! I was there! From the ancient hillfort of Dunadd to the ruins of Dunottar and St. Andrew’s and Iona, Neil took me back there, filling in the gaps of my knowledge and trying to explain how Scotland became Scotland from a collection of ‘Dark Age’ warring peoples who inhabited the British Isles and always with stunning views of the landscape. He even sat on the Stone of Scone…well, the replica..

Now, my dilemma — I’m about to go head-down on a deadline binge o’ writing and can’t decide whether to watch the whole series now or save the rest as a completed-manuscript reward? I probably still have time to watch it all….but I wonder if I should wait until I can savor it, minute by minute, scene by beautiful scene?

If it were you, what would you do? Watch it in a binge o’ watching or save it and savor it? Post a comment and I’ll pick out two people to receive an ARC of my upcoming October release – A STORM OF PLEASURE. (and I promise to pick winners and mail them out IMMEDIATELY!) Did I tell you that there are 10 episodes totaling almost 600 minutes? Yeah!

Terri is waiting (im)patiently for the release of her next Brava book – A STORM OF PLEASURE! It hits bookstores and online in just weeks! There’s even a booktrailer coming and lots of blog giveaways, so visit her website at www.terribrisbin.com for more info!

Congratulations to limecello (comment #7) for winning a copy of this book! To claim your prize, please email your name and address to stacy AT accessromance.com (replace AT with @ sign).

About the Book

HER TOUCH IS DEADLY

As the only female Seminus demon ever born, master assassin Sinead Donnelly is used to being treated like an outcast. She spent decades enslaved, and now vows she’ll die before she’ll relinquish her freedom again. Then Sin’s innate ability to kill her enemies goes awry: She creates a lethal new werewolf virus that sparks a firestorm of panic and violence.

HIS HUNGER CAN’T BE DENIED

Half-werewolf, half-vampire Conall Dearghul is charged with bringing in Sin to face punishment for the plague. And she’s no stranger: He’s bound to her by blood, and the one sexual encounter they shared has left him hungering for her raw sensuality. Worse, Sin is the underworld’s most wanted and Con soon learns he’s the only one who can help her . . . and that saving her life might mean sacrificing his own.

By Larissa Ione

· Grand Central Publishing
· August 2010
· ISBN: 0446556815

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Leave a comment for your chance to win a copy of this book. The winner will be announced here on the blog tomorrow and must contact us to claim their prize. Print books will be shipped with Amazon Prime to United States addresses only. eBooks can be sent to everyone.

Read an excerpt after the break!

“Come here.” Con’s voice was low and rough, and Sin swung around, her furious glare burning a hole right through him.

“Screw you.”

“Been there, done that,” he growled. “Now, come here.”

She shot him the bird and started toward the door. “I don’t respond well to orders.”

He was up in a flash, the tube of blood dangling from his arm, and he had her backed against the wall. “Then what do you respond to, little demon? Because right now, I’ve got a mind to turn you over my knee and spank the spoiled hell out of you and see how you respond to that.” Her gasp of outrage was a bright spot in his otherwise shitty day. “Oh, yeah,” he purred, as he wedged his thigh between hers, “you do respond to me. You responded very well to what I spilled inside you.”

When she’d told him couldn’t climax until her partner came first, he’d been surprised. And then he’d made her come. Hard. He could still hear the sound of her panting breaths, could still feel her tight inner muscles clamped around him—

She struck out, but before her fist could knock loose a few of his teeth, she hissed and grabbed her head with both hands as the pain from the anti-violence enchantment that protected the hospital kicked in. She and her siblings were immune, but only if they fought with each other.

“Forgot about the Haven spell, huh?”

“I hate you,” she rasped, and why that made him smile, he had no idea.

More gently than she deserved, he peeled her bleeding hand away from her head and swiped his tongue over the needle puncture. God, she tasted decadent, with a bite like fine brandy, and he couldn’t help but let his tongue linger on her skin. She went taut, slowly releasing her head with her other hand.

Beneath his fingers, the pulse in her wrist pounded, matching his beat for crazy beat. The air between them crackled with sudden heat, and his hips surged as he pressed his palm to her delicate throat, wanting to absorb the sensation of her lifeblood flowing under both his hands.

Ah…damn. Power swamped him as though he’d completed a circuit. She was life. She was death. She was the most dangerous female he’d ever met, and if he was smart, he’d run like hell.

Licking her lips, Sin took a deep, shuddering breath that ended with, “Release me.”

Right now, that was the last thing he wanted to do, but he’d made his point. She might hate him, but she wanted him. How familiar that sounded. Head a little fuzzy and still feeling the buzz of her blood inside his veins, he stepped back, but she surprised him when she caught his wrist.

Her dermoire lit up, and heat spread through his arm. “Just checking your virus levels,” she said, her voice thick with the same lust that coursed through him like syrup. “You really should have drank more.”

He fixed his gaze on her throat and was only half serious when he murmured, “Still can.”

Her eyes glinted with mischief as she eased closer and pressed the length of her body against him. All her soft parts fit perfectly with his hard ones, but then, he’d known that. ”Go for it,” she said, exposing her throat and calling his bluff.

She knew damned good and well that he couldn’t risk taking more blood from her, especially given how he’d lost control earlier. And he wasn’t about to take from her throat. Too intimate, too much contact, and way too much Sin for him.

Funny. Too much sin. That had never been a concern before. He’d spent the majority of his thousand years of life committing all of the sins and inventing new ones.

But this little succubus was killing his people, had made him a carrier of the disease, and her brothers were hyper-protective sons-of-demons who would have his balls on a spit if he fanged and banged her right here, right now.

You did her in a fucking closet.

Yeah, and talk about a mistake. One he wouldn’t mind repeating. Sure, he despised her, but that would keep things interesting in the sack, wouldn’t it?

Images of her clawing his back, biting his neck, fighting him even as she spread her legs for him flooded his brain. A sixth sense told him she’d give as good as she got, would have no trouble keeping up with him even during the worst of the moon fever, when violent matings could kill.

Back off…back off… He took in a ragged breath, desperate to keep control, because although the full moon was two weeks away, Sin’s blood had forced a high tide in his veins, and every primal urge was starting to rage.

Besides, there wasn’t a breed of succubi out there that didn’t steal something. Whether it was your seed, your soul, your life-force, or your heart, they sucked something out of you and rarely gave back.

Sin definitely did not strike him as the giving kind.

The door flew open with a bang. Still hopped up with feral instincts, Con pivoted, fangs bared, to face the threat.

Wraith strode inside, his loose gait deceptively relaxed. Deceptive, because his bright gaze was predatory; he was fully aware of what he’d walked in on, and Con knew the cagey bastard well enough to know he’d file away the information and use it when it was to his advantage.

“Smurfette,” he drawled, his eyes focused on Con. “E needs you in the ER. Warg came in, circling the drain.”

Sin scowled. “Circling the drain?”

“Dying,” Con gritted out. “He’s dying.”

Wraith nodded. “Time to see if you can save lives instead of just taking them.”

Some of the most original designs came from Mrs Bell, a modiste who was fortunate enough to have an entire journal – La Belle Assemblee - published by relative John Bell to showcase her garments. Before Mrs Bell’s brainwave ladies emerging from a bathing machne were either in the nude or hired a garment from the guides – or “dippers” – who would assist them into (and under) the water.

For the fastidious neither was a very pleasant prospect until in 1814 Mrs Bell came up with “The Bathing Preserver…a most ingenious and useful novelty for ladies…to provide them with a dress for bathing [which will] relieve them of the nauseous idea of wearing the bathing coverings furnished by the guides. Mrs Bell’s Bathing Preserver is made in quite a novel manner to which is attached a cap to be removed at pleasure, made of a delicate silk to keep the head dry. The Preserver is made of such light materials that a lady may carry it in a tasteful oiled silk bag of the same size as an ordinary lady’s reticule.”

The frustrating thing is that I cannot find a picture of the Bathing Preserver itself, only of its bag which may be seen in both of these pictures from La Belle Assemblee. On the left is a Seaside Morning Dress with the Preserver on the floor by the chair and on the right the outfit Mrs Bell deemed suitable to walk to the bathing machine, complete with seaweed-like trimming. The bather is carrying her Preserver in her hand. I would love to put one of my heroines in one!

Would I go swimming if I had to wear these garments? I really don’t know! What do you think?

For a writer with a teaching day job, the end of summer is a bittersweet end to a time when (theoretically) you can write full-time (when not dealing with family travels, visiting relations, yard and house work, and neighbors who drop by for coffee because you’re “on vacation.”)  Getting back to school means a homecoming with your students, where you can find out what’s been going on in their lives and guide them into another year.  But it also means racheting up the pressure to produce during the nine months when you must scratch and claw at the schedule to gouge out writing time.

Students and parents are also conflicted.  Most kids like going back to the place where they get to spend time every day with their friends; some are actually excited about learning.  Parents of kindergardeners are usually thrilled that their baby is taking his/her first steps into the world away from home, even as they feel a pang at the thought that their baby is growing up.  Parents of older kids look forward to an end to the “I’m bored!” lament of summer and to attending or assisting in all the many events their children will participate in during the coming year, from sports to theater to fairs, dances, and projects.

Beginnings, endings and life-changing transitions have always fascinated me.  Perhaps that’s why I was drawn to the heroine of my current release, THE SMUGGLER AND THE SOCIETY BRIDE.  Honoria has life as she has known it altered forever by the malice of a man she’s never even met.  She must pick up the pieces of what she was and from them, create what she will become.

The next book in the Regency Silk & Scandal miniseries, Gayle Wilson’s CLAIMING THE FORBIDDEN BRIDE, which appears in September, also involves a sharp break between past and future.  Major Rhys Morgan, the soldier for whom duty and honor run bone-deep, must decide what to do about his irresistible attraction to Nadya Argentari, a gypsy healer.  The social rules of both English and Romany society say there can be nothing between this man and woman who inhabit two very different worlds.  Should they hold fast to what they’ve always known…or brave the forbidden and risk a future together?

Are you actively involved in the beginning of the school year this August?  Does the start of school make you happy or sad?  Any fond memories of school beginnings from years past?  Join the chat today, and to one responder drawn at random, I’ll send a UK edition of CLAIMING THE FORBIDDEN BRIDE.

Congratulations to GSM (comment #6) for winning a copy of this book! To claim your prize, please email your name and address to carrie AT accessromance.com (replace AT with @ sign).

About the Book

A MAN CONTROLLED BY HIS DESIRES

Infamous for his wild, sensual needs, Lazarus Huntington, Lord Caire, is searching for a savage killer in St. Giles, London’s most notorious slum. Widowed Temperance Dews knows the area like the back of her hand—she cares for its children at the foundling home her family established. Now that home is at risk…

A WOMAN HAUNTED BY HER PAST

Caire makes a simple offer—in return for Temperance’s help navigating the perilous alleys of St. Giles, he will introduce her to high society so that she can find a benefactor for the home. But Temperance may not be the innocent she seems, and what begins as a cold bargain soon falls prey to a passion neither can control—and may well destroy them both.

By Elizabeth Hoyt

· Grand Central Publishing
· August 2010
· ISBN: 044655894X

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order at Barnes&Noble.com

Read an excerpt after the break!

London
February 1737

A woman abroad in St. Giles at midnight was either very foolish or very desperate. Or, as in her own case, Temperance Dews reflected wryly, a combination of both.

“‘Tis said the Ghost of St. Giles haunts on nights like this,” Nell Jones, Temperance’s maidservant, said chattily as she skirted a noxious puddle in the narrow alley.

Temperance glanced dubiously at her. Nell had spent three years in a traveling company of actors and sometimes had a tendency toward melodrama.

“There’s no ghost haunting St. Giles,” Temperance replied firmly. The cold winter night was frightening enough without the addition of specters.

“Oh, indeed, there is.” Nell hoisted the sleeping babe in her arms higher. “He wears a black mask and a harlequin’s motley and carries a wicked sword.”

Temperance frowned. “A harlequin’s motley? That doesn’t sound very ghostlike.”

“It’s ghostlike if he’s the dead spirit of a harlequin player come back to haunt the living.”

“For bad reviews?”

Nell sniffed. “And he’s disfigured.”

“How would anyone know that if he’s masked?”

They were coming to a turn in the alley, and Temperance thought she saw light up ahead. She held her lantern high and gripped the ancient pistol in her other hand a little tighter. The weapon was heavy enough to make her arm ache. She could have brought a sack to carry it in, but that would’ve defeated its purpose as a deterrent. Though loaded, the pistol held but one shot, and to tell the truth, she was somewhat hazy on the actual operation of the weapon.

Still, the pistol looked dangerous, and Temperance was grateful for that. The night was black, the wind moaning eerily, bringing with it the smell of excrement and rotting offal. The sounds of St. Giles rose about them—voices raised in argument, moans and laughter, and now and again the odd, chilling scream. St. Giles was enough to send the most intrepid woman running for her life.

And that was without Nell’s conversation.

“Horribly disfigured,” Nell continued, ignoring Temperance’s logic. “‘Tis said his lips and eyelids are clean burned off, as if he died in a fire long ago. He seems to grin at you with his great yellow teeth as he comes to pull the guts from your belly.”

Temperance wrinkled her nose. “Nell!”

“That’s what they say,” Nell said virtuously. “The ghost guts his victims and plays with their entrails before slipping away into the night.”

Temperance shivered. “Why would he do that?”

“Envy,” Nell said matter-of-factly. “He envies the living.”

“Well, I don’t believe in spirits in any case.” Temperance took a breath as they turned the corner into a small, wretched courtyard. Two figures stood at the opposite end, but they scuttled away at their approach. Temperance let out her breath. “Lord, I hate being abroad at night.”

Nell patted the infant’s back. “Only a half mile more. Then we can put this wee one to bed and send for the wet nurse in the morning.”

Temperance bit her lip as they ducked into another alley. “Do you think she’ll live until morning?”

But Nell, usually quite free with her opinions, was silent. Temperance peered ahead and hurried her step. The baby looked to be only weeks old and had not yet made a sound since they’d recovered her from the arms of her dead mother. Normally a thriving infant was quite loud. Terrible to think that she and Nell might’ve made this dangerous outing for naught.

But then what choice had there been, really? When she’d received word at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children that a baby was in need of her help, it had still been light. She’d known from bitter experience that if they’d waited until morn to retrieve the child, it would either have expired in the night from lack of care or would’ve already been sold for a beggar’s prop. She shuddered. The children bought by beggars were often made more pitiful to elicit sympathy from passersby. An eye might be put out or a limb broken or twisted. No, she’d really had no choice. The baby couldn’t wait until morning.

Still, she’d be very happy when they made it back to the home.

They were in a narrow passage now, the tall houses on either side leaning inward ominously. Nell was forced to walk behind Temperance or risk brushing the sides of the buildings. A scrawny cat snaked by, and then there was a shout very near.

Temperance’s steps faltered.

“Someone’s up ahead,” Nell whispered hoarsely.

They could hear scuffling and then a sudden high scream.

Temperance swallowed. The alley had no side passages. They could either retreat or continue—and to retreat meant another twenty minutes added to their journey.

That decided her. The night was chilly, and the cold wasn’t good for the babe.

“Stay close to me,” she whispered to Nell.

“Like a flea on a dog,” Nell muttered.

Temperance squared her shoulders and held the pistol firmly in front of her. Winter, her youngest brother, had said that one need only point it and shoot. That couldn’t be too hard. The light from the lantern spilled before them as she entered another crooked courtyard. Here she stood still for just a second, her light illuminating the scene ahead like a pantomime on a stage.

A man lay on the ground, bleeding from the head. But that wasn’t what froze her—blood and even death were common enough in St. Giles. No, what arrested her was the second man. He crouched over the first, his black cloak spread to either side of him like the wings of a great bird of prey. He held a long black walking stick, the end tipped with silver, echoing his hair, which was silver as well. It fell straight and long, glinting in the lantern’s light. Though his face was mostly in darkness, his eyes glinted from under the brim of a black tricorne. Temperance could feel the weight of the stranger’s stare. It was as if he physically touched her.

“Lord save and preserve us from evil,” Nell murmured, for the first time sounding fearful. “Come away, ma’am. Swiftly!”

Thus urged, Temperance ran across the courtyard, her shoes clattering on the cobblestones. She darted into another passage and left the scene behind.

“Who was he, Nell?” she panted as they made their way through the stinking alley. “Do you know?”

The passage let out suddenly into a wider road, and Temperance relaxed a little, feeling safer without the walls pressing in.

Nell spat as if to clear a foul taste from her mouth.

Temperance looked at her curiously. “You sounded like you knew that man.”

“Knew him, no,” Nell replied. “But I’ve seen him about. That was Lord Caire. He’s best left to himself.”

“Why?”

Nell shook her head, pressing her lips firmly together. “I shouldn’t be speaking about the likes of him to you at all, ma’am.”

Temperance let that cryptic comment go. They were on a better street now—some of the shops had lanterns hanging by the doors, lit by the inhabitants within. Temperance turned one more corner onto Maiden Lane, and the foundling home came within sight. Like its neighbors, it was a tall brick building of cheap construction. The windows were few and very narrow, the doorway unmarked by any sign. In the fifteen precarious years of the foundling home’s existence, there had never been a need to advertise.

Abandoned and orphaned children were all too common in St. Giles.

“Home safely,” Temperance said as they made the door. She set down the lantern on the worn stone step and took out the big iron key hanging by a cord at her waist. “I’m looking forward to a dish of hot tea.”

“I’ll put this wee one to bed,” Nell said as they entered the dingy little hall. It was spotlessly clean, but that didn’t hide the fallen plaster or the warped floorboards.

“Thank you.” Temperance removed her cloak and was just hanging it on a peg when a tall male form appeared at the far doorway.

“Temperance.”

She swallowed and turned. “Oh! Oh, Winter, I did not know you’d returned.”

“Obviously,” her younger brother said drily. He nodded to the maidservant. “A good eventide to you, Nell.”

“Sir.” Nell curtsied and looked nervously between brother and sister. “I’ll just see to the, ah, children, shall I?”

And she fled upstairs, leaving Temperance to face Winter’s disapproval alone.

Temperance squared her shoulders and moved past her brother. The foundling home was long and narrow, squeezed by the neighboring houses. There was one room off the small entryway. It was used for dining and, on occasion, receiving the home’s infrequent important visitors. At the back of the house were the kitchens, which Temperance entered now. The children had all had their dinner promptly at five o’clock, but neither she nor her brother had eaten.

“I was just about to make some tea,” she said as she went to stir the fire. Soot, the home’s black cat, got up from his place in front of the hearth and stretched before padding off in search of mice. “There’s a bit of beef left from yesterday and some new radishes I bought at market this morning.”

Behind her Winter sighed. “Temperance.”

She hurried to find the kettle. “The bread’s a bit stale, but I can toast it if you like.”

He was silent and she finally turned and faced the inevitable.

It was worse than she feared. Winter’s long, thin face merely looked sad, which always made her feel terrible. She hated to disappoint him.

“It was still light when we set out,” she said in a small voice.

He sighed again, taking off his round black hat and sitting at the kitchen table. “Could you not wait for my return, sister?”

Temperance looked at her brother. Winter was only five and twenty, but he bore himself with the air of a man twice his age. His countenance was lined with weariness, his wide shoulders slumped beneath his ill-fitting black coat, and his long limbs were much too thin. For the last five years he had taught at the tiny daily school attached to the home.

On Papa’s death last year, Winter’s work had increased tremendously. Concord, their eldest brother, had taken over the family brewery. Asa, their next eldest brother, had always been rather dismissive of the foundling home and had a mysterious business of his own. Both their sisters, Verity, the eldest of the family, and Silence, the youngest, were married. That had left Winter to manage the foundling home. Even with her help—she’d worked at the home since the death of her husband nine years before—the task was overwhelming for one man. Temperance feared for her brother’s well-being, but both the foundling home and the tiny day school had been founded by Papa. Winter felt it was his filial duty to keep the two charities alive.

If his health did not give out first.

She filled the teakettle from the water jar by the back door. “Had we waited it would have been full dark with no assurance that the babe would still be there.” She glanced at him as she placed the kettle over the fire. “Besides, have you not enough work to do?”

“If I lose my sister think you that I’d be more free of work?”

Temperance looked away guiltily.

Her brother’s voice softened. “And that discounts the lifelong sorrow I would feel had anything happened to you this night.”

“Nell knew the mother of the baby—a girl of less than fifteen years.” Temperance took out the bread and carved it into thin slices. “Besides, I carried the pistol.”

“Hmm,” Winter said behind her. “And had you been accosted, would you have used it?”

“Yes, of course,” she said with flat certainty.

“And if the shot misfired?”

She wrinkled her nose. Their father had brought up all her brothers to debate a point finely and that fact could be quite irritating at times.

She carried the bread slices to the fire to toast. “In any case, nothing did happen.”

“This night.” Winter sighed again. “Sister, you must promise me you’ll not act so foolishly again.”

“Mmm,” Temperance mumbled, concentrating on the toast. “How was your day at the school?”

For a moment, she thought Winter wouldn’t consent to her changing the subject. Then he said, “A good day, I think. The Samuels lad remembered his Latin lesson finally, and I did not have to punish any of the boys.”

Temperance glanced at him with sympathy. She knew Winter hated to take a switch to a palm, let alone cane a boy’s bottom. On the days that Winter had felt he must punish a boy he came home in a black mood.

“I’m glad,” she said simply.

He stirred in his chair. “I returned for luncheon, but you were not here.”

Temperance took the toast from the fire and placed it on the table. “I must have been taking Mary Found to her new position. I think she’ll do quite well there. Her mistress seemed very kind, and the woman took only five pounds as payment to apprentice Mary as her maid.”

“God willing she’ll actually teach the child something so we won’t see Mary Found again.”

Temperance poured the hot water into their small teapot and brought it to the table. “You sound cynical, brother.”

Winter passed a hand over his brow. “Forgive me. Cynicism is a terrible vice. I shall try to correct my humor.”

Temperance sat and silently served her brother, waiting. Something more than her late-night adventure was bothering him.

At last he said, “Mr. Wedge visited whilst I ate my luncheon.”

Mr. Wedge was their landlord. Temperance paused, her hand on the teapot. “What did he say?”

“He’ll give us only another two weeks, and then he’ll have the foundling home forcibly vacated.”

“Dear God.”

Temperance stared at the little piece of beef on her plate. It was stringy and hard and from an obscure part of the cow, but she’d been looking forward to it. Now her appetite was suddenly gone. The foundling home’s rent was in arrears—they hadn’t been able to pay the full rent last month and nothing at all this month. Perhaps she shouldn’t have bought the radishes, Temperance reflected morosely. But the children hadn’t had anything but broth and bread for the last week.

“If only Sir Gilpin had remembered us in his will,” she murmured.

Sir Stanley Gilpin had been Papa’s good friend and the patron of the foundling home. A retired theater owner, he’d managed to make a fortune on the South Sea Company and had been wily enough to withdraw his funds before the notorious bubble burst. Sir Gilpin had been a generous patron while alive, but on his unexpected death six months before, the home had been left floundering. They’d limped along, using what money had been saved, but now they were in desperate straits.

“Sir Gilpin was an unusually generous man, it would seem,” Winter replied. “I have not been able to find another gentleman so willing to fund a home for the infant poor.”

Temperance poked at her beef. “What shall we do?”

“The Lord shall provide,” Winter said, pushing aside his half-eaten meal and rising. “And if he does not, well, then perhaps I can take on private students in the evenings.”

“You already work too many hours,” Temperance protested. “You hardly have time to sleep as it is.”

Winter shrugged. “How can I live with myself if the innocents we protect are thrown into the street?”

Temperance looked down at her plate. She had no answer to that.

“Come.” Her brother held out his hand and smiled.

Winter’s smiles were so rare, so precious. When he smiled, his entire face lit as if from a flame within, and a dimple appeared on one cheek, making him look boyish, more his true age.

One couldn’t help but smile back when Winter smiled, and Temperance did so as she laid her hand in his. “Where will we go?”

“Let us visit our charges,” he said as he took a candle and led her to the stairs. “Have you ever noticed that they look quite angelic when asleep?”

Temperance laughed as they climbed the narrow wooden staircase to the next floor. There was a small hall here with three doors leading off it. They peered in the first as Winter held his candle high. Six tiny cots lined the walls of the room. The youngest of the foundlings slept here, two or three to a cot. Nell lay in an adult-sized bed by the door, already asleep.

Winter walked to the cot nearest Nell. Two babes lay there. The first was a boy, red-haired and pink-cheeked, sucking on his fist as he slept. The second child was half the size of the first, her cheeks pale and her eyes hollowed, even in sleep. Tiny whorls of fine black hair decorated her crown.

“This is the baby you rescued tonight?” Winter asked softly.

Temperance nodded. The little girl looked even frailer next to the thriving baby boy.

But Winter merely touched the baby’s hand with a gentle finger. “How do you like the name Mary Hope?”

Temperance swallowed past the thickness in her throat. “‘Tis very apt.”

Winter nodded and, with a last caress for the tiny babe, left the room. The next door led to the boys’ dormitory. Four beds held thirteen boys, all under the age of nine—the age when they were apprenticed out. The boys lay with limbs sprawled, faces flushed in sleep. Winter smiled and pulled a blanket over the three boys nearest the door, tucking in a leg that had escaped the bed.

Temperance sighed. “One would never think that they spent an hour at luncheon hunting for rats in the alley.”

“Mmm,” Winter answered as he closed the door softly behind them. “Small boys grow so swiftly to men.”

“They do indeed.” Temperance opened the last door—the one to the girls’ dormitory—and a small face immediately popped off a pillow.

“Did you get ‘er, ma’am?” Mary Whitsun whispered hoarsely.

She was the eldest of the girls in the foundling home, named for the Whitsunday morning nine years before when she’d been brought to the home as a child of three. Young though Mary Whitsun was, Temperance had to sometimes leave her in charge of the other children—as she’d had to tonight.

“Yes, Mary,” Temperance whispered back. “Nell and I brought the babe home safely.”

“I’m glad.” Mary Whitsun yawned widely.

“You did well watching the children,” Temperance whispered. “Now sleep. A new day will be here soon.”

Mary Whitsun nodded sleepily and closed her eyes.

Winter picked up a candlestick from a little table by the door and led the way out of the girls’ dormitory. “I shall take your kind advice, sister, and bid you good night.”

He lit the candlestick from his own and gave it to Temperance.

“Sleep well,” she replied. “I think I’ll have one more cup of tea before retiring.”

“Don’t stay up too late,” Winter said. He touched her cheek with a finger—much as he had the babe—and turned to mount the stairs.

Temperance watched him go, frowning at how slowly he moved up the stairs. It was past midnight, and he would rise again before five of the clock to read, write letters to prospective patrons, and prepare his school lessons for the day. He would lead the morning prayers at breakfast, hurry to his job as schoolmaster, work all morning before taking one hour for a meager luncheon, and then work again until after dark. In the evening, he heard the girls’ lessons and read from the Bible to the older children. Yet, when she voiced her worries, Winter would merely raise an eyebrow and inquire who would do the work if not he?

Temperance shook her head. She should be to bed as well—her day started at six of the clock—but these moments by herself in the evening were precious. She’d sacrifice a half hour’s sleep to sit alone with a cup of tea.

So she took her candle back downstairs. Out of habit, she checked to see that the front door was locked and barred. The wind whistled and shook the shutters as she made her way to the kitchen, and the back door rattled. She checked it as well and was relieved to see the door still barred. Temperance shivered, glad she was no longer outside on a night like this. She rinsed out the teapot and filled it again. To make a pot of tea with fresh leaves and only for herself was a terrible luxury. Soon she’d have to give this up as well, but tonight she’d enjoy her cup.

Off the kitchen was a tiny room. Its original purpose was forgotten, but it had a small fireplace, and Temperance had made it her own private sitting room. Inside was a stuffed chair, much battered but refurbished with a quilted blanket thrown over the back. A small table and a footstool were there as well—all she needed to sit by herself next to a warm fire.

Humming, Temperance placed her teapot and cup, a small dish of sugar, and the candlestick on an old wooden tray. Milk would have been nice, but what was left from this morning would go toward the children’s breakfast on the morrow. As it was, the sugar was a shameful luxury. She looked at the small bowl, biting her lip. She really ought to put it back, she simply didn’t deserve it. After a moment, she took the sugar dish off the tray, but the sacrifice brought her no feeling of wholesome goodness. Instead she was only weary. Temperance picked up the tray, and because both her hands were full, she backed into the door leading to her little sitting room.

Which was why she didn’t notice until she turned that the sitting room was already occupied.

There, sprawled in her chair like a conjured demon, sat Lord Caire. His silver hair spilled over the shoulders of his black cape, a cocked hat lay on one knee, and his right hand caressed the end of his long ebony walking stick. This close, she realized that his hair gave lie to his age. The lines about his startlingly blue eyes were few, his mouth and jaw firm. He couldn’t be much older than five and thirty.

He inclined his head at her entrance and spoke, his voice deep and smooth and softly dangerous.

“Good evening, Mrs. Dews.”

You know who Jonathan Franzen is, right? He wrote, THE CORRECTIONS. Oprah loved his book, which would be a fabulous thing to most authors. Having Oprah pick your novel for her Book Club is like having the angels sing. It basically guarantees big sales and huge exposure…so Jonathan said it embarassed him and Oprah pulled her Book Club pick. Oh, Jonathan. There are no words to describe how poorly you handled the Oprah situation. Oiy.

Fast forward to today…

Jonathan Franzen is an award-winning author. He was just on the cover of Time, something that hasn’t happened to an author since Stephen King in 2000. He has a new book coming out called FREEDOM. He’s a literary darling and has gotten a lot of exposure for the book. Not from Oprah, obviously, but from many others. The book is not out yet and there’s an emargo, meaning there are strict rules against selling it early. Then this happened:

On Friday afternoon, as Mr. Obama settled into his vacation on Martha’s Vineyard, he and his daughters stopped off at Bunch of Grapes, the renowned bookstore in Vineyard Haven. As he bought copies of “To Kill a Mockingbird,” by Harper Lee and “The Red Pony,” by John Steinbeck, booksellers handed him an advance readers copy — or A.R.C., in publishing lingo — of “Freedom,” the hugely anticipated book whose release is embargoed until next Tuesday. Booksellers are provided with advance copies of books weeks or months ahead of publication.

Media organizations quickly reported that Mr. Obama had bought a copy, sending off alarm bells (and their modern counterparts, Google news alerts) at Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Mr. Franzen’s publisher, whose spokesman, Jeff Seroy, quickly contacted reporters to correct the record. CBSnews.com updated its story, implying that the White House had provided incorrect information.

It might have been too late. Other bookstores, believing that Bunch of Grapes had broken the embargo, threatened to sell the book early. Rumors swirled that Farrar, Straus would move up the on-sale date. Eager readers who saw that Mr. Obama had the book in hand tried to get their own copies, only to be told that it wasn’t on sale yet. “People are confused,” said Jake Cumsky-Whitlock, a manager at Kramerbooks in Washington, who personally fielded a handful of requests for the book on Sunday. “One gentleman was somewhat indignant. He was sure that we were wrong.”

Now even the President is causing trouble for Jonathan. Poor Jonathan.

Yeah, I know this isn’t the author’s fault and, really, it’s barely a story. But it is funny that there’s a kerfluffle surrounding this Jonathan Franzen book as well. It’s as if trouble follows him. At least the book will sell a ridiculous number of copies. That should help ease his pain.